


A Necessary Change

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Body Shaming, Fingering, Gender Reaffirmation Surgery, M/M, Oral, Sex Change, Surgery, Transgender, f2m, fem!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is transgender, but Mycroft stands in the way of him completing the operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
 

**A/N: I am not a doctor, transgender, or a politician. I am an imaginative person. As such, I do not presume to be an authority on anything contained in this story. This is not a story about how ALL transgender people feel or experience. It’s a story about how transgender Sherlock might feel and what he might go through. I did a fair bit of research, but that doesn’t mean what is in here is 100% accurate.**

 

Given their lifestyles, the chance of John and Sherlock having their clothes ripped off by people in hazmat suits and their naked bodies stuffed into emergency decontamination chambers was fairly high. The fact that it happened right outside of Baker Street (and that their neighbors were also privy to said un-private showers) was also fairly likely. That half the Yard would be standing about laughing and pointing (whether in or out of hazmat suits) wasn’t all that far out of the speculation ranges either.

What _was_ a shock to even John was that the source of their laughter wasn’t their situation (well, it might have been a bit of that, too) but the state of Sherlock’s groin; namely, the fact that he appeared to be completely without a penis. John had, of course, not looked when they were initially shoved into the tent. Mostly because he had no interest in playing ‘who’s bigger’ with his flatmate when his hands and face were covered in (thankfully minor) chemical burns. However, with the continued laughter and pointing during their emergency medical care and then the subsequent second shower… well, he just couldn’t help peeking. There were simply no if-ands-or-buts about it. Sherlock Holmes was a woman.

When they finally were given towels and emerged from their showers to be whisked off to the hospital for proper treatment Sherlock stormed over to where Donovan was handling the contents of his wallet, one of the few things the chem-staff had considered important enough to clean off (wouldn’t want him to be without his insurance card at the hospital!). John was hot on Sherlock’s trail, towel around waist and still blinking in pain. One of his eyes seemed to be seeing a bit funny, but his hearing was just fine.

“Hey there _Shirley!_ ” Donovan shouted, and then burst out in peals of laughter once again.

“One would think you would be intelligent enough not to insult your own gender,” Sherlock snarled, snatching his ID and cards from her. John noted his money and a few odds and ends were still in the orange bag nearby along with John’s. At least they had the essentials.

“It’s just too funny!” Donovan laughed, “All this time Watson’s been telling us he isn’t gay… you’d think we’d have caught on since you two are so _obviously_ a couple!”

John frowned at the implication. Sherlock frowned at the use of his favorite word.

“ _Obviously_ , you’re not familiar with protocol here,” John stepped in when Sherlock looked fit to slug her, “I believe Scotland Yard’s code requires you to treat transgendered people with _respect_. Your actions are a form of sexual harassment _Sergeant._ ”

That wiped the smug look off Sally’s face.

“And we’re not a couple,” Sherlock added, not to be left with nothing said.

“Gentlemen,” Lestrade stated coming up to them with a look of frustrated concern on his face, “The ambulance is _that_ way.”

“Gentlemen!” Sally guffawed, and burst out laughing again, leaning on Anderson as tears rolled down her face.

Lestrade had to stop John from attacking them, but Sherlock was oddly silent and had a strangely lost look on his face as he was led to his ambulance. John didn’t see him again for several hours, and by then he was nearly dropping with fatigue. All the shots he’d had stuffed into him had left his arm sore and his mind fuzzy. They were sharing a room, thankfully, so John was at least able to ask if he was alright.

“You okay? I mean, besides physically. I know you can’t be feeling to great since you got a bigger face full of that mushroom cloud than I did.”

“I’ve been reassured that my eyebrows will grow back in time,” Sherlock replied coldly, his face stubbornly staring at the tele.

“Yeah, but besides that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock growled out, changing channels the way he’d pull the trigger on a gun- with violent intent.

“Okay, so we’re going to play it that way? That’s fine, it’s none of my business- though you should know this doesn’t change how I think about you- but what about when we see Donovan again? Or Anderson? Or any of the other people at the Met they’re going to blab this to?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Sherlock snarled, turning the tele off and throwing the remote. This was less satisfying than he’d hoped as it was attached to the bed so it only flopped about on the ground beside him.

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be handling cases for the Yard anymore.”

“They’ll still have to be brought in when you solve outside cases. I mean, not all of them are criminal, but there are some that are.”

“I won’t be handling outside cases, either,” Sherlock stubbornly rolled onto his side, his back to John, and went still as though asleep. John doubted that was the case, as his raw face would be aching while pressed against a pillow.

“So you’re just going to… what? Not work and drive me round the bend?”

Silence.

“Okay,” John decided, “You probably need time to process this. I know I do. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?”

Silence.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“… Goodnight, John,” Sherlock replied, his voice choked.

They were kept in the hospital an entire week, especially since Sherlock developed some complications and coughed up blood the following day. Since what they’d dosed themselves with wasn’t clear, even after Sherlock tried to explain it, the doctors were suitably paranoid about their health and wellbeing. When they were finally released John was absolutely sick and tired of it all and eager to get home. He found that the cleaning crew (which they’d had to pay for) had gone through their home with a fine toothed comb. Many of their things had simply been trashed, including Sherlock’s giant newspaper collection. Sherlock had given the bare look of their sitting room a despondent look and wandered into his bedroom.

“Didn’t loose too much in there?” John called.

“No,” Sherlock called back.

John checked his own room and found it to be nearly untouched. While they’d evacuated the neighbors, the gas actually hadn’t spread very far. No one had reported symptoms aside from them, and luckily Mrs. Hudson had been out. He doubted she’d have survived such a horrific ordeal at her age. John wandered back downstairs to find Sherlock sitting on the couch in his second best dressing gown (the first he’d been wearing when his experiment went awry and John doubted they’d ever see it again) holding John’s handgun and looking at it as though it were the only thing in the entire world. John felt his stomach freeze. He’d seen men look at their guns like that too often not to know what it meant.

“Sherlock,” John tried softly, “Sherlock, if this is about… what we all saw… you’re still you. Donovan and Anderson can go straight to hell, yeah? I’ll not treat you any different.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, still staring at the gun and John tried a different approach, “What about Gender Reaffirmation surgery? We’ve got a fair amount saved up, even after all the fines and such we had to pay with that stunt you just pulled. I’m a doctor still, even if I’ve not practiced in a bit, I can help you through recovery.”

“You’d do that? Support me and help me heal?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Of course,” John replied, edging closer and sitting on the couch as far from Sherlock as possible. When the detective didn’t make a move John inched closer, “I’m your friend. Whatever vision you have for your body is fine with me.”

“Can _you_ perform the surgery?” Sherlock asked, hope in his voice.

“Well… no, I haven’t an ounce of experience in that area, but I could request to assist. I’m sure the surgeon would allow it. I’d be in the room with you and… what’s wrong?”

Sherlock was shaking his head, a hopeless look on his face, “Mycroft. He’s stopped me from getting the surgery. He was furious when I had my breasts and… other inside bits… removed. He put a stop to the rest and I haven’t been able to get a surgeon near me since.”

“You… he… _that’s_ the childhood feud?!” John spat out, completely enraged. Sherlock nodded. John stood up and paced, shaking with anger, “Where the hell does he get off?! It’s _your_ body! Not his!”

Sherlock’s eyes were on John now, and that was an improvement, but he still had the gun in his hand.

“He feels my altering my body is sacrilege. I’ve managed to get hormones through the black market, but otherwise…”

“Is _that_ the source of your drug habit?”

Sherlock nodded, looking miserable, “I got hooked on morphine for a while after my mastectomy and hysterectomy-ovarectomy. I managed to kick it, but then I was slipped some hallucinogens instead of the pills I’d tried to purchase. It might have just been a mix-up, I’ll never know. After that I was hooked on the feeling of… well, of just getting away from it all. It’s hard to care about how _misplaced_ you feel in your own body when you’re high. I switched to cocaine because it was easier to get a hold of and I liked the feel of it.”

“Gods, what is he thinking?” John ranted, kicking at a table out of sheer pique, “It’s not like you can still become a mother some day, why not let you finish what you started?”

“He wants to be the only son,” Sherlock sighed, “It’s the way our father raised us. Mycroft and I were both taught that women were useless breeding mares while men held all the power. Father never considered what that would do to my self-image, although it’s much deeper than that for me. I don’t just dislike the social implications of being a woman I… I’m a _man_ inside. I know I am. I even…”

Sherlock paused, giving John a nervous look, clearly expecting to be judged. John crossed the room and sat directly beside him, putting a hand over the gun and gently tugging it from his fingers.

“Go on, I’m listening,” John gently urged, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezing it gently.

“I think it’s _there_ sometimes. My… my…”

“Penis?” John suggested.

Sherlock put his face in his hands and completely broke down. John had never seen him cry for real and was momentarily at a loss as to what to do. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, but he didn’t want to inadvertently treat him like a ‘woman’ when he saw himself as a ‘man’. It was agony. Here was his closest friend, the person he’d known for six years (minus a three year gap when he’d faked his death) in clear distress.

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder again, “We’ll sort this. I’ll talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to reason.”

“He never has before,” Sherlock replied, pulling his hands away and rubbing at his face angrily, “I’ve tried every argument, threats, even slipping away to other countries to do it in secret. He tracks me at every turn!”

Sherlock stood up and paced the room, his elegant figure cutting through the flat as it always did: with a dominant and confident air. How much of it was act? How much Sherlock’s natural prowess? To look at him you assumed no feminine form, he didn’t appear to even be an effeminate man. If John thought to describe Sherlock he would certainly use the term ‘pretty’, but that was in no way used in the feminine sense. Sherlock was a pretty _man_. He deserved the chance to see himself that way.

“We’ll think of something,” John insisted, slipping the gun into his waistband, “We always do.”

Sherlock paused and gave John a worried look, “You aren’t going to start… _coddling_ me, are you?”

John snorted, “You mean more than I already do? No. I mean it, Sherlock; you’re a bloke to me. Plain and simple. What you’ve got in your trousers doesn’t interest me any more today than it did a week ago.”

Sherlock smiled warmly and then went over to fiddle with his chemistry equipment.

“You blow up our flat again and I’ll shoot you myself!” John shouted at him.

Sherlock ignored him as usual and things fell into their usual pattern. For a week John was on edge, watching Sherlock carefully and keeping his gun in Mrs. Hudson’s flat in the hopes Sherlock wouldn’t look there. Eventually John started to relax as Sherlock amicably took on cases outside of the Yard and John volunteered to be his liaison when the Yard did need to be called. He calmly (and occasionally not so calmly) fended off the naysayers. Whenever Sherlock himself needed to make a statement John made sure Lestrade was the one to talk to him. The first time this happened Sherlock was visibly nervous, but John stayed right by his side and Lestrade never made a comment about his ‘real’ gender. At the end, when he’d flipped his notebook shut, Lestrade gave them both a grin.

“Good work, you two. That bastard will be behind bars for years because of you. Listen, I know things have been a bit off lately. Why don’t the three of us go out for drinks after I get this paperwork sorted? Say 9?”

“I don’t go out for drinks,” Sherlock replied automatically.

“Sure,” John stated, elbowing him.

“Great, I’ll pick you up so you don’t have to pay cab fare… not going to promise I’ll drive you home, though,” Lestrade quipped with a grin. He was known for knocking them back.

Sherlock changed his clothes three times before John told him to stop being a ponce and put on a pair of jeans. Sherlock scowled at him and came out with… a pair of black jeans and one of his more toned down shirts.

“I didn’t actually think you owned a pair,” John gaped, noting the outline of padding that was likely a rolled up sock.

“I have several,” Sherlock snorted, “I just don’t go out for drinks. Remember?”

“Yeah, well, it’s about time you started. You could use a guys night out every once and again. Keeps you honest.”

“How does getting pissed, hitting on every woman in the bar, occasionally going home with one for a one-off, and then staggering home at six in the morning without your pants keep one honest?”

“How did you know I didn’t have my pants last time?” John asked with a dropped jaw.

“Obvious,” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes.

Lestrade honked from outside and they hurried downstairs to pile into his car. He went on about the game that would be playing at the bar and John grinned enthusiastically even as Sherlock looked thoroughly bored and annoyed. The bar was a typical sort, dim lighting and enthusiastic sports viewers with loud opinions and far too many drinks in their blood. Sherlock sat awkwardly at the bar while John and Lestrade slowly worked themselves towards inebriated. Women came over in droves to hit on Sherlock and John did all he could to pick up the inevitably insulted women. He ended up getting a blow job in the parking lot from one and all but skipped back inside.

“That settles it, I’m taking you with me _everywhere_ from now on,” John grinned, putting his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and giving him a smooch on the cheek, “You’re my new wingman. Greg, you’re fired.”

“Fuck you,” Greg laughed, ordering another round.

“This is dull, I want to go home.”

“Why don’t you try _not_ insulting the women who make passes at you?” John replied with a grin, “I’ve already gotten some, you should get some, too. Treat yourself. That handsome face of yours should come in handy. Next lady who comes over, just sweep her off her feet.”

“And do what with her invariably spread legs?” Sherlock pointed out with a scowl.

“Ummm, find one that swings both ways? I know you can tell. You can probably spot them ‘cross the room,” John slurred.

“Let me state this plainly,” Sherlock replied with a scowl, “I see myself as disfigured. I’m as interested in baring _that_ part of my anatomy as you are of pulling off your shirt and showing your gunshot wound to every ‘lady’ in this bar.”

John winced, Lestrade looked uncomfortable, and Sherlock stood up with a dismissing gesture.

“I’m going home,” The consulting detective declared with a pout, “You two feel free to continue to drown your livers in cheap alcohol and your self-esteem in loose women.”

“Oi!” Lestrade shouted at him as he stomped out the door, “Don’t you be putting down the loose women! They make the world a better place!”

“On that note, I think we’d better leave, too,” John replied, noticing a few angry glares from the women in the room, “I think I was just inconsiderate.”

John woke the next morning with a mild hangover and a surly flatmate, but Sherlock showed no sign of descending into the misery he’d been in when they’d returned from the hospital so he left him be. Then he checked the mail and had to contain his excitement. He was certain now that he’d found a solution for Sherlock’s problem, but it would take a lot of very _careful_ maneuvering. For now he’d have to keep Sherlock in the dark, though the man would likely know _something_ was up with him, silence was his best weapon against the constantly spying Mycroft Holmes.

XXXXXXXXXX

John’s trip to Zurich for the medical conference was uneventful in all ways but one: he met up with a colleague and old friend in the form of Dr. Wilf Meyer. Meyer was a surgeon who specialized in plastic surgery, but had experience in numerous other fields. This was due to his creative imagination. The man was more than a nip-tuck quack; he was an artist with a vision to make people happy and beautiful. He didn’t just think of beauty in the typical sense, though, and had published several papers on the fact. He’d done a rather shocking surgery a few years back in which he gave a woman who’s metabolism kept her skinny no matter what she ate a [Rubenesque](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nWISAMm4A_8/ThBu-SnRk4I/AAAAAAAAAgk/9Q0emwXwimo/s320/Danielle-Levitt3.jpg) figure. The woman tearfully told the reporters that she finally felt like ‘a real woman’. Most people had been scandalized that he’d made a thin woman ‘fat’, but her husband had been thrilled and told everyone how gorgeous he found his wife now.

“Hey, Wilf,” John smiled, sitting down with his colleague at the hotel bar after the last lecture of the day, “Listen, can we go to your rooms or something? I have a rather sensitive patient to discuss with you.”

“Oh? One of your cases with that Holmes fellow?”

“Ah, actually, it’s me,” John replied.

“You?”

“Yeah, do you mind?”

Wilf downed his glass and they headed to his hotel room. Once there, John flopped down in a chair and set about with his plan.

“You’ve done phalloplasty’s yes?”

“Sure, many. Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to get one done.”

Wilf blinked, “Sorry?”

“I’m female, physically speaking,” John replied, having scoured his memory for any way that Wilf would know otherwise, “But I’ve been living as a man practically my whole life. Even my closest friends don’t know, just my sister and our parents.”

“Jesus, I’d have never known!” Wilf gaped, “But you’ve at least had a mastectomy, why not the rest?”

“I’ve had the hysterectomy-ovarectomy, too, and I’ve been on hormones for years. As to why… well, it’s just never happened. I’ve wanted to, gods, you’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to. I _hate_ my body, and while I’ve dealt with it well enough, it’s getting to the point I can’t even be with women anymore. I mean, forget the part about finding one open-minded enough to be with _half_ a man, that’s not so difficult, I’m at the point I can’t stand to let them see me naked anymore. I feel _deformed_.”

John was proud of his theatrics. He was channeling Sherlock to the best of his abilities, using the words he’d used and the expressions that had crossed his face. He’d practiced this speech in the mirror for hours.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Wilf picked up.

“Yeah, it would have to be done entirely in secret. You know my flatmate?”

“Yes.”

“He’s supportive, but his brother is a government official. He’s _very_ prejudiced against this sort of thing. If he ever found out I’m not what I say I am… he’d make sure I never see my best friend again.”

Wilf sighed and shook his head, giving John a pitying look, “I’d love to help you out, John, but I can’t just cut you up in a hotel room. I’d have to have things prepped first.”

“I realize that, me being here was just an excuse to talk to you first. I thought we could make a plan of action. I was figuring on bringing my flatmate here under the pretense that you have a case for him. Once he’s here I’d explain it all to him and we’ll use his brilliant brain to hide me.”

“You realize it takes a good year to two years to recover?”

“Yes, that’s why I want him here. I’ll need the support and the care.”

Wilf nodded, “You’ve clearly thought this through a great deal. I’ll not stand in your way, and I’ll keep it as secret as possible. You’re a good friend, John, I’ve known you for years. I can only imagine what it’s like for you to live like this.”

John summoned up a few tears by tugging at the hairs on his arms, a trick he’d learned from Sherlock, “Thank you. Really, you’ve no idea what this means to me.”

They talked about the particulars, going over the surgery and the recovery for a good long while. Wilf made some carefully worded calls and organized a few people who owed him favors. Then they thought up a lure for Sherlock and John called him up.

“Sherlock, I need you on the next plane to Zurich. An old mate of mine needs your help finding a lost family heirloom, but it has to stay hush-hush. It’s been missing twenty years and get this: it was Hitler’s pocket watch.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone and John thought he’d been hung up on for a moment, and then Sherlock calmly stated, “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

John sighed in relief. He knew the ridiculous case was either a tell that John was trying to get Sherlock there without protest or a good lure for the detective who craved the bizarre. Sure enough when the detective arrived he said not a word until John got him alone.

“Do you think Mycroft’s bugged either of us?” John whispered, “I tried searching, but I haven’t your talent.”

“If he has,” Sherlock whispered back conspiratorially, “the microphone would pick up on you whispering, and you clumsily searching the room would be an even bigger tell.”

John winced and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He inspected the room carefully and then flopped down on the bed.

“So, who will be doing my surgery?”

“You know, it’s really annoying never being able to surprise you with gifts, but this?”

“We should leave quickly. If I figured it out already Mycroft won’t be far behind.”

“Right, well. It’s all set up. We need to get to Frauenfeld where my chum Dr. Meyer will meet us with his surgical team. He’s got a friend there that will put us both up for your recovery. Wilf is going to do the surgery free of charge and he’s pulled in a few favors to get the rest of the team to do so as well. I’ll be there for the surgery, of course. We’ll have to pay rent to the fellow we’ll be staying with, and that’ll cost us because it could take up to 18 months for you to recover, assuming we can go straight into surgery. He’ll have to look you over. If you’re not in perfect health he’ll have to postpone. I’m hoping you can give us some tips on sneaking around and a way to discretely contact Mrs. Hudson so she doesn’t worry.”

Sherlock nodded; he knew full well the sooner the surgery was done the better as Mycroft was bound to track them down eventually. Sherlock stood and paced the room, bristling with nervous energy and rubbing his hands together eagerly. Finally he paused and held his hand out.

“Your phone.”

John surrendered it without question and Sherlock took his out of his pocket as well. He placed them each on a nightstand and then pulled out John’s laptop from his bag. He began to type as soon as it had booted up and John set about ordering room service so he could force some food down the likely starving detectives throat. Sherlock ate without question, which just showed how sincere he was about being healthy for the surgery. After about twenty minutes John’s phone went off but Sherlock told him not to answer it.

“They’ll keep doing that for a few days, pinging off different towers that I’ve programmed them to connect with at random. It will look as though we’re running all around Zurich.”

“You are truly brilliant!” John declared with a grin.

“Good, now pay for the hotel room for the next week and we can go. I’ve booked us a ticket on a train under false names. Here,” Sherlock reached into his bag and pulled out a wig and moustache, “Put these on.”

“Grey? Really?”

Sherlock ignored John and set about packing John’s bag for him while John went downstairs and paid for the room. When he returned a fat man with a sagging jaw greeted him. John did a double take and the man winked with an amused grin.

“That’s really creepy, Sherlock,” John stated.

“Come on, John, hurry up.”

John donned his disguise with Sherlock’s help and changed into a suit provided for him as well. His important things were in a briefcase that Sherlock had brought with him rather than his suitcase. They left together and were unnoticed by anyone. Dr. Meyer would meet them in Frauenfeld in a day.

Sherlock was a wreck on the train. He kept fidgeting and paging through magazines without seeing anything on the pages. He looked anxious and was sweating his make-up off.

“Hey,” John soothed, gripping his hand tightly, “It’s going to be fine. Really, Sherlock, just keep it together. I’ll be there for the surgery and to nurse you back to health. Our biggest threat right now is infection, and I’ll make sure that everything that goes near you after the surgery is sterile. Okay?”

“It isn’t the surgery that has me anxious, John,” Sherlock confided, his voice cracking, “It’s Mycroft. He’s bound to hunt us down eventually. What if he stops it again? What if it gets started but isn’t able to be completed? What if…”

“Stop it, just stop it, Sherlock,” John scolded, squeezing his hand again, “I’ll shoot him if I have to. He has _no_ right. Lets see how he feels about surgery once I’ve blown his kneecap to slivers.”

Sherlock smiled warmly at John’s threat and relaxed a good deal, but John could hear him muttering under his breath every once in a while and knew his fears hadn’t been laid to rest.

They reached Frauenfeld close to midnight so they found a cheep motel for the night rather than intrude on Dr. Meyer’s friend at so late an hour. John paid in cash per Sherlock’s instructions in order to make it more difficult to trace. He also had them change disguises the next morning. They then sought out Frau Vivien Meyer, Dr. Meyer’s cousin and close friend who would be housing them for the next eighteen months. She welcomed them and showed them to a tiny attic room they’d be calling home. It had a couch and two end tables on the un-sloped side to the right of the door, a single bed tucked beneath the sloped side across form the doorway; a rickety folding table with two chairs and a small black and white TV perched on it took up the area in front of the window on the far right. The small recessed window faced the street while a skylight above the bed gave the room a less claustrophobic feel.

“No cable,” She told them in lilting English.

“Internet?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Yes, is free. Password,” She handed him a piece of paper with a few other instructions on it including the password for the router. Sherlock thanked her politely, which was a relief to John, and then she excused herself to go and cook. She’d be making their meals for the next year and a half since they had no kitchen and she expressly did _not_ want them ‘messing about’ in hers.

“Guess we’ll be sampling the local cuisine,” John replied sitting down on the couch and finding it passably comfortable, “I hope there are blankets somewhere.”

Sherlock had opened a chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out a rather cozy looking blanket to toss to John. He caught it and folded it for later use. Sherlock found a pillow as well and John placed that on top. They unpacked what little they had with them and put that in the chest instead. They each had only one change of clothing with them and Sherlock had brought his laptop since it had a great deal of security on it. John’s was back at the hotel, set up to randomly log on and off the internet. It was also going to e-mail Mrs. Hudson after a week and ask her to come and fetch it along with their other things.

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make the best of things,” John stated calmly, “I want you to do me a favor, Sherlock, let me do the talking when we meet Meyer. I’m afraid I’ve lied to him. I didn’t want to go blabbing your secrets without your permission- and I had no idea if he somehow knew Mycroft- so I told him I was the one who needed the surgery.”

“I assumed as much.”

Sherlock nodded, sliding their window open to give the room some much-needed air. The wooden floor was bare aside from a small woven rug in the center. John saw there was baseboard heat, so at least they wouldn’t freeze come winter. Not that the summer was overly hot here, anyway.

“I’m also going to need you to be _patient_ ,” John stated, “We won’t be able to go running about solving cases and you can’t destroy this place with your chemistry experiments. We’ll have to be _decent_ tenants for a change. I’ll get you some books from the library and we can try to find you a nice hobby. The first month you’ll probably be a bit woozy from recovery anyway, but after that I don’t want you driving me up a wall. Maybe we can get you a part-time job in between surgeries or something. I know I’m planning on getting one.”

“How will you swing a work visa?” Sherlock asked.

“I planned on finding something under the table. I’m sure Meyer can help me with that, assuming he isn’t too angry with me for lying to him. I’m sure he’s only offered to do this because I’m an old chum. I was thinking of playing it off that we’re boyfriends to garner his sympathy. Everyone else seems to think it’s the truth, do you think he’ll buy it?”

Sherlock shrugged, apparently not listening to John very closely.

A knock at the door sent John hurrying for it. It was Wilf Meyer and he was smiling warmly.

“John, I’m so glad you two made it in one piece,” Meyer smiled, shaking John’s hand warmly before turning to Sherlock, “Ah, now, there’s my patient! Let’s sit down, Mr. Holmes, and we’ll discuss your options. Is it alright if I call you Sherlock?”

“You… you knew?” John asked.

“Of course I knew,” Meyer snorted, “You don’t work in this business for forty years without catching on a bit. You’re clearly born male, and when I’m done with Sherlock here only my own peers will be able to tell that he wasn’t.”

Sherlock smiled one of those rare genuine smiles that John treasured beyond compare.

“You aren’t angry?” John asked, “I didn’t mean to play on our friendship, well, okay, I did, but…”

Meyer waived him off and patted the seat beside him on the sofa, “Come now, Sherlock, I don’t bite. Not unless you’re into that, too.”

Sherlock laughed and sat down comfortably beside Meyer, grinning and twining his hands anxiously.

“Now then, let’s discuss your options. There are really only two surgeries I prefer. One will provide you with a functioning penis that will allow you to achieve an erection- after a second surgery in about a year- and have penetrative sex. The other is purely cosmetic and…”

They talked for hours, Sherlock opening up to Meyer in a way that John had only rarely glimpsed. The blogger found himself increasingly jealous of Sherlock’s eager divulgence. That was until Sherlock broke down and confessed his fears to the doctor.

“The thing is, I want to be able to have sex, but I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea. I’ve gone my whole life without it, in the last five years I’ve hardly even masturbated since I’ve been so… well, I’m sure you know how I feel about… _that_.”

“You’re afraid women won’t find you appealing or won’t be able to accept the fact that you were once a man,” Dr. Meyer soothed.

“Not exactly. I’m afraid _men_ won’t find me attractive for those reasons. I have no doubt a woman would be easily fooled into thinking my alteration was naturally born, only having interaction with male anatomy during sex, but another man?”

Dr. Meyer nodded, “I’ve had mixed results. Some men have told me other men are oblivious to the fact until they explain why they only ejaculate in small drips. Others catch on immediately, going so far as- forgive me my bluntness- to ask what happened to the person’s genitals to make them look odd.”

Sherlock shut his eyes, a pained look on his face as a single tear leaked out, “Then perhaps the cosmetic only…”

“I would _strongly_ advise against that,” Dr. Meyer stated, putting a comforting hand on Sherlock’s arm, “If you were much older or much more experienced, or if your reasons were that you intended to bottom only and not to pass fully as a male… well then I would agree wholeheartedly that the less traumatic cosmetic-only surgery was an option. However, you have lived your life as a male since adolescence, you’ve put your life- especially your sex life- on hold because of it. This has stood in the way of developing all forms of relationships. I won’t force it on you, Sherlock, but I beg of you to consider the full surgery. I want you to be happy with more than your appearance. Even if you never do find a man who understands you, at the very least you can be content with _yourself_.”

Sherlock seemed to consider this a moment, and then nodded.

“Well, you needn’t make the decision now, but we are on a timetable from what John has told me- at least the bits I ascertained were true. We can’t have your brother interrupting us. With your permission I’d like to examine you now, I’m afraid an internal _is_ necessary. I’d prefer more professional settings, but the less you leave here the safer you are, so I’ll have to ask you to put up with me examining you here.”

Sherlock nodded, though his face had paled considerably.

“I’ll just wait-“ John started.

“No!” Sherlock snapped, then looked away in embarrassment, “Please stay, John. I… I need you for this.”

“Yeah, of course.”

John nodded, and stood at the head of the bed with his back politely turned along with Dr. Meyer until Sherlock had undressed and placed himself down on the bed with his knees bent and a paper sheet- brought by the doctor- folded over his lap.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock stated, as though bracing himself for execution.

Dr. Meyer walked to the foot of the bed and examined Sherlock’s abdomen, pressing on it here and there. John pulled a chair over and sat by the head of the bed where Sherlock could see him. Sherlock stared at John intently through the entire examination, but it wasn’t until the internal began that true distress crossed his face. When that happened he reached out and snatched John’s hand up, using it to cover his eyes as though to block his surroundings out.

“A bit of pressure…” Dr. Meyer was saying, “I am sorry, Sherlock, this will be over soon.”

“You’re doing so well,” John soothed, stroking his hair with his free hand, “Just you wait, you’ll be even more handsome when this is over with. It will be worth it, Sherlock. The men will be lining up to date you… until you insult them and they run away crying.”

Sherlock gave John a weak smile and peered out from beneath John’s hand, “I’ll have to practice _flirting_. How tiresome.”

“We can double date,” John grinned, “It will be hilarious and my dates will be broken up by my mad flatmate less often.”

“You mean more often. Do you really expect that to work?”

John thought about it for a moment, “Maybe speed dating. Do you think you could be polite for an entire minute?”

“Unlikely.”

“Damn. Perhaps we can have him remove your tongue as well…”

Sherlock laughed, but winced as it put too much pressure on the speculum inside of him.

“Almost over,” Meyer explained, “I’m just taking some measurements now. Your last surgery looks to be healed very well. Barely any scarring.”

“I had the best doctors,” Sherlock replied proudly.

“Well you’ve got another,” John smiled warmly at Dr. Meyer, who smiled up at him and then removed himself from between Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock hissed with discomfort and crossed his legs, blushing furiously.

“I need a shower. Or four,” Sherlock growled.

“I apologize, Sherlock,” Dr. Meyer said sincerely, “Why don’t you go get that shower and we’ll talk some more when you’re back.”

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock worried.

“Not a thing, but I want you to be comfortable when we finish discussing the details.”

Sherlock nodded, donned a robe, and fled downstairs to the bathroom. When he returned, flushed from a hot shower, he declined to re-dress and flopped down on the sofa to run his fingers through his damp curls and look damned good doing it. And masculine. How the hell did he do that when John knew gay men who couldn’t pull off masculine?

“What are you smirking at?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at John.

“Just thinking that you should do speeches or something.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so _obviously_ male, to use your favorite word. I can’t even figure out how you were born a woman, it doesn’t add up in my head.”

“That,” Sherlock stated with a smile, “May be the most intelligent thing you have ever uttered, John Watson.”

“Well, that settles it, it’s definitely the end of the world. Sherlock Holmes just complimented me,” John threw up his arms, “And here I thought we were off to surgery. Won’t make it what with Hell freezing over.”

Sherlock laughed and Dr. Meyer shook his head in amusement before joining Sherlock on the couch.

“Now then, have you decided?”

Sherlock nodded, “The full surgery. I imagine I’ll only regret the other.”

“That will require a series of skin graffs, the first on your…”

John tuned out most of the medical jargon, having been informed of a good deal of it when he first met with Dr. Meyer about the subject. It was well past lunch and their stomachs were all growling when Dr. Meyer received a call.

“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t break for lunch,” Dr. Meyer stated, “My team is ready. Are you?”

Sherlock’s face paled, but he nodded eagerly and smiled at them both. He threw on his clothes and they left in a hurry without bothering with disguises. They reached the hospital where Dr. Meyer had paid for a surgery for them to perform Sherlock’s transformation in. Sherlock was first rushed down to get an ultrasound to make sure there were no internal anomalies to be concerned with, and then back upstairs to have blood drawn, and then to the room he’d be staying in for a few days after the surgery where they shaved his privates and left forearm in preparation for the surgery. They went over his medical history a good dozen times until Sherlock nearly killed them all and then rolled him in for surgery. John stood at Sherlock’s side, gave him a supportive nod since his face was covered by a mask, and watched as he slipped under the anesthesia.

“Scalpel,” Dr. Meyer demanded, and they began the life-altering repairs to Sherlock’s ‘damaged’ body.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was tame as a sleepy kitten for the first week after his surgery. He was required to use a catheter to pee and _everything_ hurt him. The pain pills he were on had to be a milder form due to his history as a drug addict, so Sherlock wasn’t given the relief most patients would post-op, though he certainly wasn’t going it alone. He had massive quantities of gauze and bandages everywhere and was a whimpering mess of pain. John tended him as gently as a lover and with as much dedication as he would his own kin. Sherlock barely had to look at something before John fetched it.

Finally, he began to heal enough to go back to being his own smarmy, stroppy self, and John found himself on the sharp end of Sherlockian temper tantrums. He went to the library and rented blue-ray’s for the player he’d bought, borrowed books, magazines, and newspapers. He pulled up internet sites and tried to get Sherlock interested in _anything_ that didn’t involve John Baiting. John _tried_ to be understanding, but there were endless screaming matches that usually ended with Sherlock crying since his body was so thrown off between the new (properly prescribed) hormones he was taking, the pain, and the pain pills. John felt like a complete arsehole on a regular basis and finally just started keeping as silent as possible.

Finally, Sherlock was well enough to get up and use the bathroom on his own. He trudged downstairs and came back upstairs with a radiant look on his face. He walked straight up to John and hugged him tightly, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and flopped down onto the sofa with a grin on his face.

“We should go out to dinner to celebrate.”

“To celebrate you pissing while standing for the first time?” John laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve peed standing up for ages,” Sherlock scoffed, “It’s just less awkward- and messy- now than it was before.”

“How did you…? Never mind. Don’t want to know, don’t need to know. Right. Dinner? You sure it’s safe?”

“The most important surgery is over, I look male now. Even if he tries to stop me now, it’s too late. The reversal is such a nightmare it’s unlikely he could get someone to do it without resorting to illegal means, and I doubt he’s prepared to hunt me down to force that on me. Now it’s just a matter of getting the testicles made, the tattooing done and, once feeling returns to my nerves, the erectile prosthesis surgery.”

“When will they do the testicles?”

“In a few months time.”

It would still be another five months or more before Sherlock’s skin graft was healed enough for him to get a tattoo to shade his new penis the proper colors, so long as no complications arose. Since he was so very pale, the tattooing would likely be minimal and mostly limited to the ‘head’ of his penis. Sherlock mourned the fact that Dr. Meyer had insisted on a circumcised penis, but apparently including a foreskin often caused complications later on due to chaffing, graft issues, and general cleanliness that natural foreskins didn’t have issues with. Once John had seen the completed (and finally un-swollen) member, he had assured Sherlock that it didn’t look abnormal at all.

“You’ll just have to tell people you were circumcised, is all,” John had insisted, “It’s a bit unusual in Britain, but not unheard of.”

XXXXXXXX

The rest of that week passed achingly slowly as Sherlock’s boredom overwhelmed his newfound confidence in his body. He _needed_ something to do. Then John found the beehive. They’d been aware of the buzzing for some time, but one day John got home from the library and found they’d managed to get inside. He went right back out to get some bee and hornet spray. The last thing Sherlock needed was infection from a bee sting. However, when he returned he found their room filled with smoke and the interior wall to the left of the window torn open. Sherlock had ‘rescued’ the hive from John and moved it to the crawl space where there was a suitable exit amongst the rafters. It was now ensconced in a skid he’d harvested from the street corner. He had ransacked the neighbor’s garden for pots of flowers and filled the area up with them. He was kneeling on the floor covered in dirt, soot, bee stings, lotion for the bee stings, and a wide grin.

“I’m studying apiculture, John,” Sherlock stated.

John sighed and went _back_ out to the library to get him books on beekeeping, then to the pet store to get a lamp for the flowers and to heat the crawl space, and then to the hardware store to get some supplies to repair the damage to their wall. The pet store turned out to have very little else for beekeeping, but John found a helpful person at the hardware store that directed him on making a few odds and ends, including a proper bee smoker so Sherlock would get stung less. He sold him a ton of gear and sent him to a fabric store to get netting to make netted hats. John returned with his various projects and enlisted Sherlock’s help just to keep the madman from lifting any more things from the neighbors.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The weeks turned to months and Sherlock was happier than John had ever seen him. He went in for the testicle reconstructive surgery and came back swollen and miserable again. A few weeks later the tattooing went well, especially since Sherlock still didn’t have feeling ‘down there’. In six weeks he was proudly flaunting his new bits to John, who hadn’t seen as much of them during this recovery from the tattooing.

“Is it a bit odd that we’re looking at your bits?” John asked with a grin.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “You’ll be seeing a good deal of them, you know.”

“Great,” John said with a roll of his eyes, “So you won’t even be sporting a sheet anymore?”

Sherlock snorted and went to stare at his bees. John put on his netted hat and sat in his chair reading the news in London off Sherlock’s laptop. An IM came in.

**When will you cease this madness and come home?**

John stared at it for several minutes in confusion.

“Uh, Sherlock? You just got a message on…”

“Ignore it.”

“Who is it from?”

“Who do you think?”

“Mycroft?”

“Your brilliance astounds me,” Sherlock replied sarcastically.

“How long has he known where we are?”

“He came by a few months ago to harass me while you were out at the store,” Sherlock explained, “One of my bees stung him. A tragic loss, but her martyrdom was not in vain. Mycroft left without me even having to flash him. He’s furious with you, by the way. He says you’ll never set foot in England again.”

“Well, good thing I’m Three Continents Watson, then, isn’t it?” John replied with a snort.

He had no doubt that Mycroft could make his life miserable, but he wasn’t going to worry about it. What he’d done was _right,_ and it was done and over with. Mycroft would just have to suck it up. John calmly typed out a reply.

**Fuck you Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was ready to kill himself over ‘this madness’. Is your preconceived perception of his gender really more important than his life? I won’t be helping you out with him anymore. You stay away from him until you’re ready to accept him for who he is: your BROTHER. – JW**

**Sherlock has made such threats before. I assure you they are nothing more than theatrics.**

**Maybe you’re willing to take that risk, but I’m not. Besides it’s his body, not yours. - JW**

**You’ll see soon enough. This will change nothing. He’ll be the same miserable, irritating, unappreciative young woman he’s always been. You can paint a swan black but that doesn’t make it a goose.**

John couldn’t think of a response to that so he settled for an insult.

**You’re a dick. - JW**

XXXXXXXXXX

The final surgery was the one they had problems with. Sherlock developed an infection after the three-piece erectile prosthetic was inserted into his body. At first Dr. Meyer feared they would have to remove it, which could mean there would be no chance of re-inserting it due to scar tissue build up. Thankfully a round of antibiotics cleared things up, but Sherlock’s recovery was pushed back by a month.

When he was finally clear of infection and had healed enough he reported to the hospital one last time for a test run of the inflatable prosthesis. As usual, John was along for the ride and quite concerned. Sherlock was both excited about and afraid of this part of the transformation. While he didn’t need to have an erection to have an orgasm, he did need it to have penetrative sex. They both stood there watching in concern as Sherlock manipulated the pump in his testicles and they both watched in awe as the member slowly rose to fully erect. Sherlock stared at it as if he’d never seen one before. Perhaps he hadn’t.

“Very well, Sherlock,” Dr. Meyer stated with a smile, “Any pain?”

“An odd sort off… pressure.”

“Yes, most born males who have this done for medical reason describe that as similar to a strained erection. Is it too painful?”

“No,” Sherlock stated, reaching out to take himself in hand and then pulling away and blushing.

“Actually, I will ask you to touch it, explore it if you will,” Dr. Meyer stated, “I need you to make sure there are no sore spots. That includes around the testicles and abdomen, but make sure not to hit the release until I say so.”

“Alright,” Sherlock replied.

Sherlock grasped himself and stroked awkwardly. He explored with his fingers, feeling for bulges. John felt a bit awkward studying Sherlock while he manipulated his erect penis, but it was more of a medical procedure than a circle jerk, so he kept his eyes glued. John noticed Sherlock’s face was flushed, pupils dilated, and he was breathing a bit fast. John fought his smirk down, deciding it wasn’t fair to laugh at Sherlock’s first time touching his now sensitive penis.

“No discomfort,” Sherlock stated, releasing himself.

The doctor examined him once more and then they deflated the device and Sherlock tucked himself back into his pants with a satisfied smile on his face. When they left the hospital Sherlock was bristling with excitement, but the Doctor wanted to keep him nearby for another week to supervise his continued healing.

XXXXXXXXXX

Finally, Sherlock was deemed well enough to go home and they thanked Dr. Meyer and his cousin several times over before packing up and heading for England. Sherlock mourned the loss of his beehive, but found an apiculturist to take them on. He saw them off to their new home and John politely ignored his quiet sniffling on the cab ride to the airport.

Once home, Sherlock greeted Mrs. Hudson with a warm hug and texted Lestrade to demand a case. The man didn’t reply, instead he came over in person.

“Where the hell have you been?” Lestrade asked, “Mycroft was by harassing me, Mrs. Hudson was being _secretive_ , and you two vanished without a word! I half expected you to come back with wedding rings on.”

John snorted and Sherlock grinned and dropped his trousers.

Lestrade groaned and slapped his hand over his eyes, “I didn’t need to see it, Sherlock. A declaration of ‘I got my bits altered’ would have sufficed.”

“He’s probably going to show Donovan and Anderson, too,” John laughed.

“Oh, no! Don’t you two go getting me in trouble! I can’t bring you on cases if you start collecting ASBOs for public indecency!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “As though I’d treat _them_ to _this_.”

“This?” Lestrade laughed, “Haven’t named it yet? Mine’s called Will.”

Sherlock looked scandalized, and then curious.

“Do _all_ men name them?” Sherlock asked, looking at John curiously.

John snorted and motioned down to his crotch, “Sam.”

“Surface to Air Missile? Really, John?” Sherlock sneered while Lestrade laughed outright.

“Oi! Don’t doubt it until you’ve seen it!” John argued, which brooked the next turn in the conversation.

“Alright, then, whip it out,” Lestrade challenged.

“Oh, come off it, we aren’t fifteen anymore,” John scoffed.

“Why not? It’s a right of passage, you know, and Sherlock hasn’t had a chance yet. Get a magazine, John,” Lestrade grinned, “Let’s see who’s the biggest.”

John laughed and fetched a magazine and he and Lestrade sat down on the couch to stroke themselves under their shirts while admiring the lady spread out on the table. Sherlock, who had been disgusted initially, wandered over curiously at this point.

“All right, then, I’m ready,” Lestrade grinned, and leaned back to show off his full eight inches with a fair amount of girth.

“Damn, you’ve got me beat,” John sighed, “I’m just a bit above average.”

John was around seven inches, but had more girth than Lestrade did.

“All right, Sherlock, your turn,” Lestrade said with a grin, stroking himself to keep hard.

“I requested seven inches myself,” Sherlock stated, “I’ve no need to be overly large since my interest is in men.”

Sherlock lowered his trousers again, activated the pump and the three men stared in fascination at the slowly rising cock.

“Well that’s handy,” Lestrade stated with a nod.

“It seems to be a bit under seven inches,” Sherlock stated with a frown, “But as six is average I think this is adequate.”

There wasn’t much to say to that so Lestrade opted to up the ante.

“Circle jerk?” Lestrade said with a grin, “Sherlock’s never done one of those, either.”

“If we’re going to do everything I haven’t done we’re going to need condoms, lubricant, and a homosexual man,” Sherlock snorted, and deflated his cock with a smirk.

“I’m with Sherlock,” John laughed, “Some things don’t need experiencing.”

John tucked his still hard shaft into his trousers while Lestrade tucked himself away as well; he was noticeably less interested in the proceedings. Sherlock stood up and re-dressed as well.

“I did ask for a case?” Sherlock stated, demanding as always.

“I’ll dig something up for you,” Lestrade promised and headed out the door with a wave.

“Was that as awkward for you as it was for me?” Sherlock wondered.

“Yes, it usually is,” John sighed, “Doesn’t stop it from happening to most young lads. Guess this means you’re officially initiated into the fraternity of teenage boys.”

Sherlock laughed and they set about making themselves comfortable in their flat once more.

<http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3312187/>

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/4306.html)

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft showed up while they were sitting down to dinner. He had a scowl on his face and his umbrella clutched in his hand like a sword. Sherlock stood up with a proud smirk, apparently ready to spar with his brother, but John beat him to it by calmly standing, wiping his mouth of on a napkin, and then punching Mycroft out. Sherlock restrained John from doing more damage, pulling his arms behind his back and literally holding him off.

Mycroft struggled to his feet, touching fingers to lip to dab at the blood there, “I was under the impression _you_ were the one under hormone therapy. Why is Dr. Watson more aggressive?”

“I believe he’s mad at you,” Sherlock snickered, still holding John back, “And I’ve _always_ been the aggressive one. Easy, John, pummeling Mycroft will only get you locked up and never seen again. Then what would I do without my blogger?”

John took a deep breath and got himself under control. It was just in the nick of time because having Sherlock tugging him against himself was doing odd things to John’s body. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was feeling protective of Sherlock or the rush of punching Mycroft in his up-turned nose, but blood was definitely heading south. John jerked out of Sherlock’s arms, sat down in his chair, and stuffed some pasta in his mouth as though intent on ignoring them all. Sherlock made things more difficult by walking around John and giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. His touch shot down to John’s cock which was showing definite interest now.

 _I shouldn’t have done that whole compare sizes thing,_ John thought, _It crossed a boundary. I’ve gotten awfully comfortable with Sherlock’s dick over the last year._

Mycroft was glaring at Sherlock, “Well, are you satisfied now? Or will you be getting a lip reduction and shaving your head?”

“What’s wrong with my lips?” Sherlock demanded, head snapping to the side to look at John.

“Nothing at all,” John growled angrily.

“They’re full and _pouty_ ,” Mycroft sneered.

“He’s just jealous because his lips are thin and chapped,” John snorted, “Hell, _I’m_ jealous of your lips. You’re going to pull men like a magnet.”

“ _Men_?” Mycroft nearly shrieked, “What does he mean _men?!_ Honestly, Sherlock, are you completely unable to be _normal_ for one instant of your life? Pick a gender and sexuality already!”

John looked up in horror, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes, “Honestly, Mycroft, it’s like we’ve never met. You subscribe that you’re more intelligent and observant than I am, but you’ve missed _everything_ about me. Yes. I’m gay. Yes, I’m calling it ‘gay’ because I’m a man. I was a man before the surgery, and I’m a man now. I prefer my own gender therefore I am gay. I am a _gay man_. Is that clear enough for you, or shall I draw a diagram?”

Mycroft scowled, “I’m cutting you off.”

“I haven’t touched my trust fund in years,” Sherlock snorted, “Enjoy it.”

“Wait, if it’s _your_ trust fund than he can’t cut you off,” John argued, “It’s yours.”

“It’s mine so long as the ‘head of the family’ allows it. Mycroft is currently the ‘head of the family’ per my father’s will. He has all control over my trust fund despite my age. My father was a rather talented lawyer in addition to being a misogynistic bastard.”

“How _dare_ you talk about our father like that!” Mycroft argued angrily.

“How dare _you_ show up here as though you own your brother!” John shouted, jumping to his feet in anger. Sherlock stepped in front of him to prevent another fistfight, but John pushed him aside.

“Well, we all know where _your_ feelings lie,” Mycroft sneered, pointedly glancing down at John’s tented trousers.

“You really are an Iceman if you’ve never had a spontaneous erection,” John snorted, “Not everything needs reading into.”

Mycroft laughed and turned his question to Sherlock, “Haven’t you told him yet?”

“Unlike you, I don’t presume to live peoples lives for them.”

“Told me what?” John demanded.

“What indeed?” Mycroft chortled, looking smug and amused.

“Mycroft is under the rather interesting impression that you’re in love with me,” Sherlock frowned, “He was hoping- until recently- that your interest would cause me to behave like a woman and change my body back to the way it was at twenty when I still had breasts.”

“He refused to wear a bra. It was _shameful_ ,” Mycroft stated with his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“ _Women_ wear bras. I’m a _man_.”

“You’re a woman playing dress up and no amount of nip-tuck will ever convince me otherwise,” Mycroft snarled.

John saw the moment Sherlock wavered, the moment Mycroft’s words cut deeper than the scalpel that had corrected the ‘flaws’ in his body. He saw the flash of hurt and the longing for acceptance and understanding. John’s erection deflated faster than Sherlock’s artificial one and he turned on Mycroft with a glare that must have been truly terrifying since the man looked alarmed and took a step back.

“Get out,” John whispered, “Get out and don’t you _dare_ speak to him again or I’ll kill you. Don’t doubt that, Mycroft Holmes. All your suited secret agent men couldn’t stop me, I can promise you that.”

Mycroft gave John a considering look, then nodded respectfully. It galled John that he got the respect that Sherlock had earned; it brought bile up in his throat, but there was nothing for it as Mycroft turned and strode out of the flat with his back ramrod straight and his brolly swinging casually. He left the door open so John walked over and slammed it shut behind him with finality.

Sherlock was standing stock still in the middle of the room, his eyes uncertain and darting around the room. He was looking for something to take his emotions out on besides John, which John appreciated but at the moment he _wanted_ to be the focus of Sherlock’s ire. He felt unreasonably guilty for Mycroft’s reactions.

“Sherlock…” John started forward, intending on pulling him into a tight hug.

Sherlock turned away and sat down to his meal, “Well, that settles that.”

John froze in the middle of their sitting room, confused and thrown off. He’d honestly been intending on _holding_ the man, and it had everything to do with himself and nothing to do with Sherlock. He’d simply wanted to. Sherlock was trying to preserve his dignity and John had been about to _snuggle_ him. John cleared his throat and sat down as well, picking at his food miserably.

“Don’t take what he said to heart, John,” Sherlock advised, “Only you can define yourself.”

John studied his food a moment longer, “I do, though. Love you, I mean. Maybe not how he says, but I do in a way. A weird way, I guess. Is that not on?”

Sherlock looked up at John’s uncertain tone and smirked, “You’re the one who usually tells _me_.”

“Well, I guess we’re both stymied,” John snorted.

“Some mysteries are never meant to be solved,” Sherlock stated, holding up his glass of water. John clinked his beer to it and they both took a swig.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Life was average for a while; Sherlock adjusted to the changes in his body and became less emotional. He was more cheerful on a regular basis, but was otherwise his usual self. The only big change came one night when John was ready to go out with Lestrade for drinks. Sherlock came trotting out of his room dressed in jeans and a nice shirt and followed John out the door and into the cab with his suit jacket along for the ride since it was a bit chilly.

“So, you’re joining us I take it?” John grinned.

“Yes, and you’re going to be my wingman,” Sherlock replied cheerfully.

“Ah, I think you mean you’re going to be mine,” John chuckled.

“No, it’s mine turn. _I_ want a blowjob in the parking lot,” Sherlock frowned.

John laughed, “The bar we’re going to might stone you if you start trying to pick up the blokes there. How about this, we’ll start off there and once I’ve had a few drinks to fortify me we’ll head to a gay bar. Where’s a gay bar around here?”

“Oh, they aren’t in short supply. We’ll just have the cabby take us to the nearest one. Then you’ll be my wingman?”

“Just a call me your fairy godfather,” John smirked.

“Really John?” Sherlock laughed, “I’d rather not. I’m not _that_ gay.”

“Oh, well, there are levels are there?”

“Yes, I’m a six.”

“A six?”

“Yes, I’m a six on the Kinsey scale, but I’m a one on the flamboyant scale.”

“Okay, I’ve actually heard of the Kinsey scale, so who made the flamboyant scale?”

“No one, it just exists.”

“One to what?”

“Ten.”

“You’re at least a six on that as well.”

“I am _not_!” Sherlock argued, looking scandalized.

“With your coat collar turned up and your cheekbones? Okay, where’s the cut off.”

“Cut off? Specify,” Sherlock asked with a frown.

“Where does the limp-wrist and lisping start?”

“Mmmm, five thru ten, five being barely noticeable and ten being a drag queen; one being a butch body builder and four being metro sexual without flamboyance.”

“Okay then, I stand corrected.”

“Good.”

“You’re a five.”

Sherlock laughed and John grinned as they pulled up to the pub. They piled out and greeted Lestrade at the door. Once inside they sat down to drinks while John and Lestrade looked about to see who was who.

“Here comes the straight man’s scale,” John grinned, “One are so ugly you’d never touch them and ten are out of your league beautiful.”

“That’s a bit repulsive,” Sherlock sneered.

“Tell me honestly you’ve never rated men that way,” Lestrade scoffed.

Sherlock thought about it, “What am I, then?”

“How should we know? We’re straight. Go ask that unbelievable ten over there,” Lestrade pointed to a woman who looked as though she was fresh off a magazine cover.

Sherlock, not catching his sarcasm, hopped off his bar stool and headed over while John and Lestrade stared as though at a train wreck. Sherlock strode confidently across the room and paused in front of the woman. He pointed back to John and Lestrade- who had admittedly dopey grins on their faces- and seemed to be explaining their discussion.

“Somebody’s going to get slapped,” John decided.

“It won’t be him, the bastard,” Lestrade grunted.

“Nope, his cheekbones might cut her perfectly manicured hand.”

The woman was laughing and made a twirling motion with her finger. Sherlock stepped back and turned around slowly, holding his suit jacket open to give her a good view. The women with her- ranging from 3’s to 7’s- were applauding and cheering. Sherlock laughed as well and then pointed to John and Lestrade and explained something else. The women looked over and all six of them glided to their feet and walked over like an 80’s movie scene. Lestrade’s mouth was hanging open and John was grinning from ear to ear.

“Hello ladies,” John smiled cheerfully.

“So which of us is a ten?” The Six asked. Three looked worried.

“Aahhh,” Lestrade stuttered.

“Retreat, retreat! It’s a trap!” John laughed, “You’re all beautiful. We were just joking about the scale thing because Sherlock here was rating himself on the way over. We say he’s a five on the flamboyant scale. What do you think?”

That sparked a repeat of the discussion from the cab and some muscular men wandered over to try and snag some of the pretty women chatting up the two ordinary blokes. Sherlock gave them all heated looks and they wandered away _very_ quickly with their ass cheeks clenched. Eventually it became obvious that no one was going home with anyone and Sherlock started whining about wanting to go to the gay bar. The women wanted to go too, so they all hopped on the tube and giggled their drunken way over to a place called the Escape Bar.

Once inside they all set about dancing like fools, John ended up being passed from one young man to another and laughing as they groped him. He lost track of Lestrade and didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Sherlock stuck fairly close to John who introduced him to everyone he bumped into. Sherlock had turned shy once they’d gotten inside, but he quickly warmed up to the exciting atmosphere and danced eagerly with John and anyone else who happened to grind his way to him. Finally Sherlock made a connection with a forty-something fellow with bleach-blonde hair wearing a black vest and tight leather pants. They snickered and giggled and danced closer than Sherlock had with the other fellows or John. Finally Sherlock broke away and headed for John.

“What’s the protocol to have sex with him?” Sherlock asked.

“Ahhh,” John stammered, panicking a bit, “I’m… uhhhh…”

“Do I take him back to ours or go to his?” Sherlock elaborated, “Would you be bothered by…”

“Ours!” John replied, suddenly picturing Sherlock tied to a bed and raped, “Take him to ours. Safe ground. You have condoms?”

“Yes, I found some in your nightstand.”

John was too relieved to argue that out, “Right, good. You head home and I’ll give you a ten minute head start so you don’t have a third wheel along.”

“Good plan,” Sherlock grinned and nodded.

John wandered outside and watched Sherlock get into the cab with the fellow he’d chosen, they were laughing and snogging lightly. John stood about, checking his watch for a moment and wondering if this was why people took up smoking. Once he saw ten minutes had passed he hailed a cab and headed home. Sherlock and his beau were already in his room and he could hear them laughing and stumbling about together. John brushed his teeth, feeling oddly sober for someone who had drunk as much as he had. He headed upstairs and paced his room anxiously.

_What if that bloke isn’t gentle enough? How much has he had to drink? What if the condom tears and Sherlock catches something? I’ve been tested; I should have made the effort. How hard would it be to lie there and let Sherlock have his first time with someone who actually cares about him and what that experience would be like for him? What if that bastard mocks Sherlock and scares him away from sex for the rest of his life… again._

That settled it. John stomped downstairs and wasn’t shocked to find the two men hadn’t thought to lock Sherlock’s bedroom door. Sherlock was on his hands and knees, moaning as the blonde bloke fingered his arse. John saw red and was shouting at him before rationality could interfere.

“Get your fucking hands off of him!” John shouted, crossing the room and dragging the bastard away from Sherlock by that pretentious black vest.

“Hey, easy, buddy! He told me he was single!”

“And he’s staying that way!” John shouted, tossing him out the bedroom door.

John saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye but the detective didn’t try to stop him so John gathered up the man’s trousers and shoes and tossed them at him. His socks and pants followed. The man got dressed, shouting at John for being a cock-blocking arse while John shouted abuse at him- accusing him of taking advantage of Sherlock. Finally the man staggered downstairs and John turned his attention on Sherlock who was hard and patiently waiting for John to get himself together.

“Okay,” John babbled, pacing the room and running his fingers through his hair anxiously, “Alright. Okay. We’re just… we’re just going to handle this like adults.”

“Yes, because that’s worked well so far,” Sherlock replied sarcastically. He was on his knees, his cock standing out proudly from a thatch of curly black hair.

“Shut up. No, don’t shut up. Tell me what you want.”

“A good shag would be appreciated,” Sherlock snorted.

“Yeah, but specifics. Top? Bottom? I got the impression you wanted to top, but he had you bottoming.”

Sherlock frowned, “He said virgins can’t top.”

“There, you see? He’s a lying bastard. Good thing I came in, yeah?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said nothing so John stopped pacing and crossed to the bed, he climbed onto it and pulled Sherlock to him for a tender kiss. They explored each other’s mouths slowly while John gently ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s side. Sherlock shivered and slipped his arms around John’s shoulders, moaning into his mouth with that sinfully deep voice of his. John’s cock started firming up and he reached down to undo his jeans and free it from confinement. Sherlock tugged John’s shirt over his head and the slid down onto the bed together on their sides as John shimmied out of his trousers. Sherlock was panting in excitement as he tugged John’s pants down and palmed his growing erection.

“John,” Sherlock moaned.

“Sherlock. Fuck,” John gasped as the man rolled him onto his back and pressed his legs between John’s thighs.

John spread his legs and Sherlock slotted himself between them, moaning as he pressed his cock against John’s hips. John bucked up, gasping in pleasure as he ground himself against Sherlock’s perfect abs. He had one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair but no idea how it had ended up there. The other he was shocked to find was gripping Sherlock’s full arse and pressing him down on him, teaching him how to roll his hips against John’s body.

Sherlock was gasping and panting, his hips juttering forward as he became more frantic to reach culmination.

“Sh-Sherlock,” John gasped, “I… you can… inside me.”

“John,” Sherlock moaned, then pulled reluctantly away and reached for the lube on the bedside stand.

He slicked up his fingers and coaxed John’s legs further open. John found he was trembling a bit, but he still spread his cheeks for Sherlock willingly. The first touch to his pucker was shocking and he jumped and gasped at the sensitivity. He’d never thought to explore himself there and was shocked to find it sensitive. Of course he knew people enjoyed this, but he’d never thought _he’d_ enjoy it. Now as Sherlock slowly slid a digit inside of him John found himself sighing and relaxing into the pressure. It felt _right_ to give himself to Sherlock like this. It felt good to provide for his needs as he had during his recovery. This was just the next step, John’s drunken brain decided.

Sherlock worked him for a bit and then pushed a second finger in. John hissed at the burn, but forced himself to relax around it. Sherlock’s face was intense, his eyes hungry for more as looked over John’s body and fucked him with his fingers.

“You’re gorgeous, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m dreaming,” John decided, because there was no way in hell Sherlock would complement him.

“You _are_ a dream,” Sherlock corrected him in his usual snide voice.

“That’s better,” John nodded, recognizing that arrogant tone.

Sherlock kissed him and that _was_ better and then John groaned as Sherlock removed those brilliant, long fingers of his and stroked lubricant over his cock. He pressed the head against John’s entrance, holding himself steady with thumb and forefinger as he began to push inside. Sherlock gasped in pleasure, but John whimpered in discomfort. He held himself still anyway, and Sherlock was soon buried inside of him. When Sherlock made to pull out John clutched him tightly and held him still.

“John,” Shelrock whined in frustration.

“Just… just… lemme adjust… s’alot inside me.”

Sherlock panted against John’s neck and John eventually relaxed muscle by muscle until Sherlock was able to slide out and then press back inside with a long moan. John’s eyes were tightly closed as he tried to come to grips with the invasion of his body. The pleasure had dimmed and Sherlock’s awkward pawing at his cock was doing nothing for him.

“There’s a spot. Your prostate. I have to find… tell me when I hit it,” Sherlock breathed, pulling out and trying an upward angle.

John groaned in discomfort and squirmed a bit. Sherlock tried again and John gasped and bucked up to meet him this time. Sparks were going off behind his eyes and his cock was twitching in interest again.

“Found it,” Sherlock said smugly.

“Bastard,” John gasped.

Sherlock snickered and began to press against that spot inside John over and again, “Touch yourself, John. Get hard for me again. I love the feel of your hard cock pressed against my stomach.”

John moaned and fisted himself roughly until he was hard and aching as Sherlock slid into him over and again. Every time he hit John’s p-spot the man wanted to moan so he gave in and started to, wriggling in pleasure as Sherlock began to fuck him faster and harder.

“Oh, gods, you’re so tight!” Sherlock gasped, “I think… they said I might not for a while, but… I think…”

John felt the change inside him as Sherlock’s hips lost rhythm and he came closer and closer to his climax.

“Yes,” John gasped, feeling the coil in his belly tightening as he came closer to the edge himself.

“Oh, _GODS!_ ” Sherlock shouted, his back arched and he thrust sharp and shallow into John’s body, dragging the tip of his cock over John’s prostate until he could barely breathe.

“FUCK!” John gasped, and then was spilling himself between them with a strangled cry.

Sherlock sobbed into John’s shoulder arching through a second orgasm and clawing at John’s shoulder’s in mindless pleasure.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock.”

John moaned, going limp beneath him as Sherlock mindlessly rutted inside of him. John’s relaxation took the pressure off his prostate and he simply held Sherlock as he chased a third orgasm. The man was frantic with it, his body clenched tight as a spring, gasping John’s name and making short movements inside of him to stimulate the transplanted clitoral nerves on the underside of his penis. John stroked one hand up Sherlock’s back to encourage him and kept the other tightly wrapped in his curls.

“You’re so big inside me,” John whispered, “It’s amazing having you fill me up.”

“John! K-keep talking.”

“You’re so sexy, Sherlock,” John groaned, “All muscle and musky sweat. Look at you taking me like this.”

John gave Sherlock’s arse a squeeze and the man cried out above him, coming hard inside John’s body. John whimpered as his body was over-stimulated, but it was worth it when Sherlock went limp over him, his limbs trembling form the force of his orgasms. They lay together for a few moments, simply basking in the afterglow. When Sherlock pulled away John had to steady him and he simply collapsed beside him, thighs shaking and arms thrown over his head. John sat up to admire the perfectly sculpted man before him.

“Adonis,” John purred, stroking a sensitive nipple and watching Sherlock’s hips jump.

“Tease,” Sherlock gasped, “Leave me alone. I’m spent.”

John chuckled, used to Sherlock’s abrasive personality, “I’m going to clean myself up and bring you a flannel to do the same.”

“Good.”

John cleaned the come off of him and was surprised to find a bit of fluid leaking out of him anus. He wiped at it with some tissue and gave it a nervous sniff, worried Sherlock had pissed in him, but what he smelled was a _female’s_ fluid. It hit him then and he blushed as his cock gave an interested twitch despite its clearly sated state. Sherlock had _squirted_ inside him! He’d had a girlfriend who had squirted when she’d climaxed and it had been the height of erotic to see those clear fluids gushing out of her and then licking them up. The first time he’d been disgusted, thinking she’d pissed on him during sex, but once she’d told him what it was- female ejaculation and a rare pleasure- he’d been mad for it. It made John want to go into that room and suck on Sherlock till he got a taste, but he doubted Sherlock could manage it again. Instead he finished cleaning himself up and came in to wash up a snoring Sherlock.

John wondered for a moment if he should stay. Sherlock had dismissed him, but what if he hadn’t meant it or hadn’t really known what he wanted? What if he was emotional the next morning and John wasn’t there for him? What if he thought John didn’t want him?

Because John did want him and he was just drunk enough to face that right now, so John curled up beside his sprawled flatmate and Sherlock rolled over and spooned him in his sleep. John sighed happily and they relaxed into each other’s arms. He’d deal with the rest in the morning.

XXXXXXXXXX

John woke up with cottonmouth, crusty eyes, a roiling stomach, and a sore arsehole…

_Wait, what was that last one?_

John forced his eyes open and met pale blue-green eyes that were staring at him expectantly.

“Oh,” John said, then rolled over and bolted for the bathroom to be spectacularly sick.

John was still groaning into to the loo when Sherlock walked into the bathroom in a robe and held out a mug of tea.

“You’re a god,” John groaned, accepting it and taking a sip.

“No milk. It will only aggravate your stomach more.”

“You’re a super god.”

“I’m fairly certain there’s no such thing,” Sherlock snorted.

“You don’t know that. Science hasn’t completely disproven gods so therefore there could be supergods so therefore you could be one.”

“I stand corrected,” Sherlock snorted, “You’re irrefutable argument does indeed prove that I am a supergod.”

“Good, now can we get to the part where I worship you?”

“I thought you already had,” Sherlock chuckled, sipping his own tea and leaning against the doorway.

“How are you so fucking composed right now?”

“I had far less to drink than you did and haven’t had to reassess my entire sexual identification while hung over.”

“Could you just reassess it for me? You’re good at that whole… deducing thing,” John sighed, sitting back against the tub and sipping his tea as though it were life sustaining.

Sherlock found some paracetomol in the cabinet and gave John two, which he downed and groaned as his stomach protested the too-fast consumption of hot liquid. It stayed down, though, so John relaxed once more.

“John, your sexuality hardly matters at this stage in your life. You’re a cis-male who has had a majority of his sexual relations with women. That you’ve now had an experience with a man is only unusual because of your age; most people experiment when they’re younger. It doesn’t mean your sexual preferences have changed, it means that you’re more interested in an emotional than a physical relationship. That is fairly common in older men and women; why else do people past their sexual prime marry? You are looking for a life partner, and you know full well that I need you. It makes sense for you to transfer first emotional affection and then physical attraction onto me. I doubt you’d feel similarly for other men. Perhaps Lestrade now that he’s divorced, but even that I doubt since you’re so very involved in my life and not so much in his.”

“So I’m into you because we’re chums?” John asked.

“And you feel protective of me, and you spend a great deal of time taking care of me, and I make a lot of demands on you; specifically for needs that one would normally only provide for their spouse. Sexual demands likely are the next step your lizard brain was expecting.”

“That… that makes a sick kid of sense.”

“Good, crisis averted or do I need to phone Lestrade?”

“Gods, no, not Lestrade. I’m not ready to tell him we finally rolled into bed together.”

“Very well,” Sherlock shrugged, completely unconcerned.

John groaned, “No, it’s not. That was really fucking rude of me.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

“Because it implied that I’m ashamed of this… thing between us,” John replied while rubbing the bridge of his nose, and then quickly added, “Which I’m not.”

“Of course not. I fucked you senseless and you loved every second of it. Why would you be bothered by that?”

John looked up at Sherlock to see him completely serious about that matter.

“Aside from the sexuality issue?”

“Well, yes, aside from that, obviously, but I’ve already cleared that up.”

John laughed a bit, shook his head, and pushed himself to his feet, “Right, well, so long as all that’s cleared up.”

Sherlock nodded tersely and left and John ran a shower for himself.

XXXXXXXXXX

John came out of the shower to find Sherlock dressed and shoving clothing into his hands, “Get ready quickly, we have a case.”

John hurried into his clothes, accepted the buttered toast, and ran out the door behind the flared coat of his… _lover_. John slid into the cab beside Sherlock and clasped his hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re not usually this giddy about kidnappings,” Sherlock noted, his free thumb flying over his mobile.

“I’m giddy about you, actually,” John grinned, taking a bite of his toast.

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, thoroughly distracted by the case.

John was fine with Sherlock’s lack of attention. It gave him the chance to study his flatmate turned lover and be content with it. Sherlock’s statements earlier made it sound as though Sherlock was perfectly comfortable dropping straight into a committed relationship with John; a life partner, he’d said. He worried a bit about Sherlock’s lack of experience, especially since he’d been eager just last night to roll into bed with a complete stranger, but he was suddenly feeling good about himself in a way he never had before. John felt _sexy_. Strong. Desirable. Whenever Sherlock glanced away from his phone the look on his face as his eyes met John’s was consuming. When they slipped out of the cab John happily held the door for Sherlock without even thinking about it, and then winced at his action. Sherlock caught it and smirked, tugged John against him by his arm, and snogged him hungrily. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and let himself lean into Sherlock’s strong body. They broke their kiss and headed into Scotland Yard with smiles on their faces. Sherlock had John’s arm linked in his as they walked through the doors and headed for Lestrade’s office.

Until they heard who the missing person was.

“What do you mean someone abducted _Greg?!_ ” John asked, his face haggard. Sherlock looked murderous.

“A neighbor reported it,” Dimmock, the lead on the case, informed them, “He was walking up to his building this morning when several men pulled up in an unmarked black van, dragged him into it, and took off. The witness said he fought them off and shouted ‘Get Sherlock Holmes’ to the neighbor who was by the door at the time. We checked the tapes, but the one for this morning was missing.”

Sherlock broke away from John, pacing the floor, “We need to see his flat. I need to know if he ever got home last night. If not then we’ll have a starting point at the Escape Bar.”

John nodded, but Sally, Anderson, Dimmock, and Gregson all looked confused.

“Escape Bar?” Dimmock asked, “Isn’t that a gay bar?”

“Yeah, we took Sherlock to one last night for kicks,” John explained, “But we were all dancing with lots of people and I was pissed. We had a whole group of ladies go with us from the first pub we’d started out at- our usual spot- and I don’t recall the last time I saw Greg. Sherlock, when did you see him last?”

“He was dancing with the Ten,” Sherlock replied.

“What? Really?! Lucky bastard,” John gaped.

Sherlock snorted, “Are you forgetting _you_ went home with a ten?”

“No, I mean, yes, I mean. So, do you think she’s a suspect?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but let it go.

“Ten?” Donovan asked.

Most of the men in the room looked away, but Sherlock launched into an explanation with both feet.

“The straight boys were rating women based on their physical attributes. The ladies all agreed I’m a ten as well,” Sherlock beamed.

“I’m assuming this was before you opened your mouth,” Donovan sneered.

“You wouldn’t say that if you had a dick for me to suck,” Sherlock smirked.

“Could we stay on point here?” John scolded, stepping in between them.

“John is correct, we should be focusing on finding Lestrade,” Sherlock stated, “Let’s go to his flat and go on from there.”

Donovan and Anderson stayed behind since they were not part of the case. Gregson and Dimmock were working together on this with Walter running forensics. They entered Lestrade’s flat and Sherlock moved quickly through the rooms before turning and heading back out.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, chasing him down the hall.

“Escape!” Sherlock shouted back.

They were downstairs with the rest of the ‘team’ hot on their trail. They all piled into the car, pressed close together, and headed for Escape Bar where Sherlock interrogated the bartender and demanded to see the tapes of the previous night. They stood in the security office looking for Lestrade over three different cameras. They saw him dancing with Ten for a while, then lost track of them both. There was another image of Lestrade heading for the bathrooms. It took him a full two hours to leave it again.

“Hook up in the bathroom? Or did he make two trips and we missed something?” John asked.

“Hook up implies the same gender in this case, unless he managed one of the women we brought with us,” Sherlock replied.

“I’ve never asked Greg his preferences, have you?”

“No, but I don’t need to ask. Lestrade is bisexual.”

“Oh. Well. Right, then. So maybe he _did_ have a bathroom hook up.”

“It’s looking that way. Let’s get down there and see if we can find his fluids.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna skip that,” John replied with a snort, then saw something on the monitor he was looking at, “Sherlock, look! He’s leaving with Ten!”

Sherlock shoved John off the stool he was sitting on- he just barely kept from hitting the floor- and rewound the tape. Sure enough, there was Greg, leaving with a broad grin on his face and Ten on his arm. John watched as Sherlock rewound it and watched it over and over again.

“Send Walter to the bathroom,” Sherlock said softly, “You and I need to get this to St. Bart’s.”

“You think we can use… what, identification software or something to find her name?”

“Unnecessary. Lestrade didn’t leave with Ten.”

Sherlock pulled the data off on a thumb drive and took off.

XXXXXXXXXX

They borrowed St. Bart’s computer lab, signing off on a few hours so they could go over the tapes in private. Sherlock ran a program on the file that was supposed to remove any editing that had been applied to it. The result was a blurred out figure beside Lestrade.

“Who is it?” John wondered.

“No idea. Whoever altered this did it with professional software. They didn’t have time to edit the one at Lestrade’s building because there was a witness, so they just stole that tape.”

“That says a lot,” John commented, “I mean, they didn’t abduct or kill the witness, so we may not be dealing with psychopaths.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed with a nod.

“Yet they _did_ take Greg in broad daylight, manage to get into his locked building without being seen to take his tape, and then alter this one while we were busy running around.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and then pulled out the thumb tab that had the rest of the tapes on them and ran the program on them. It was going to take a few hours so John suggested they get something to eat. Sherlock refused, as usual, so John decided to suggest something else.

“Well, in that case,” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s neck, “How about I help you relax?”

“Sex, John? Now? Isn’t that one of those things people aren’t supposed to do when they’re worried about someone they care about?”

“That depends,” John replied, kissing the other side of his neck, “We’re doing all we can and there’s no way to rush any of this. Walter’s reports aren’t back yet since that bathroom was _foul_. You aren’t hungry, but you are _very_ tense and I’ve got this urge to suck you off.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he dragged them away from the flickering screen to stare at John in shocked excitement, “You’d be willing to…”

“I’m _dying_ to,” John purred, leaning forward and kissing his lover heatedly.

Sherlock moaned and struggled with his trousers while John turned his chair around with a loud grinding noise. John dropped to his knees while Sherlock pushed his trousers and pants down to his ankles and shamelessly sat bare-assed on the chair. John leaned forward and triggered the pump to bring Sherlock’s member from flaccid to turgid. He stroked him was he swelled, making Sherlock groan and shift eagerly. John leaned forward to take him into his mouth… and balked.

“Umm,” John blushed, suddenly horrified by what he was considering doing. He’d been aroused at the idea of sucking John off last night- and even just a moment ago- but now he was looking at Sherlock with trepidation.

“I can… I can deflate it,” Sherlock offered, “It needn’t be erect for me to enjoy it.”

John shook his head, “All of you or none of you. This is who you are and if I’m going to be with you I’m going to be with _all_ of you.”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he grasped Sherlock’s cock and stroked him a few times while he focused on why he was feeling this way.

“John,” Sherlock panted, shifting a bit, “Could you… wet your hand if you’re going to keep… _gods!_ ”

John opened his eyes and looked up to see Sherlock flushed and panting from just this contact.

“You’re gorgeous,” John breathed, releasing his cock, “I need you to hold still for me. I’ve got this nervous thought that you’ll choke me.”

Sherlock nodded frantically, and John leaned forward to swipe his tongue up the underside of his cock. Sherlock made a strangled sound and threw his head back, gripping the arms of the chair to keep himself from thrusting up. John tried to swipe his tongue around different areas, looking for where the most sensitive part of Sherlock’s member were. Knowing a man’s penis wasn’t the only erogenous zone on his body he explored around him as well. He found that his bollocks being licked aroused Sherlock, but he quickly pushed John away from them.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just… not there. It feels like you’re eating me out,” Sherlock looked repulsed.

“Men do eat each other out, Sher, and I’d be willing to do that for you… during or right after a shower.”

Sherlock laughed at that and John smiled warmly, “Do you want me to do something else or do you think you can let yourself enjoy that?”

“I… I…” Sherlock was clearly struggling so John stood up and dropped his own trousers.

Then John pulled Sherlock’s hands to his own ballsack and showed him how he enjoyed to be touched there. While Sherlock leaned forward and curiously rolled John’s bollocks in his hand, John hummed in pleasure and lazily rotated his hips as pleasure coiled in his belly. He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to wrap those full lips around him, and had to stop himself from thrusting forward the way he’d asked Sherlock _not_ to. His time with Sherlock the night before had been his first time with another person in nearly two years; he was still on edge and in definite need of a release. As Sherlock sucked and bobbed around his cock, gripping his arse firmly while sucking him hungrily, John found himself spiraling towards climax at breakneck speed. Sherlock’s mouth was sinfully talented. John wanted to ask him how he’d learned to do this, but he was far more interested in coming down that long throat. When Sherlock slipped his finger in beside John’s cock the doctor frowned at the interference, but it wasn’t there long enough to annoy him. Then he found out why Sherlock had wetted his finger when he slipped it between John’s cheeks and stroked fire along the nerves around his pucker until he gasped and came in a torrent.

“Finally putting your mouth to good use, eh?” Donovan’s voice cracked through their pleasure like a whip. Well… it disrupted John’s enjoyment of the moment. Sherlock just sat back with a smug smile and gave John an expectant look. He was licking his lips as though he’d just had the best meal of his life.

“Where the hell did _that_ come from?” Donovan asked.

John finally tore his eyes away from Sherlock to look at her and saw her standing beside a disgusted Anderson. John glanced back in confusion to find Sherlock standing up and flaunting his cock proudly.

“Sorry, Donovan, John’s already claimed it,” Sherlock smirked, so saying he tugged John against himself and re-directed John’s hand to Sherlock’s dick.

“Sherlock!” John stammered in alarm, pulling away and tugging his trousers up.

“How does it stand up like that?” Donovan asked, her face mixed with alarm and discomfort.

“Go away!” Sherlock snapped, “You’ve scared John out of my first blow job!”

 Anderson and Donovan both burst out laughing and Sherlock flushed angrily.

That settled it for John. He dropped to his knees and swallowed Sherlock down with the same enthusiasm Sherlock had shown him. Sherlock gasped and clutched at his hair while Donovan and Anderson beat a hasty retreat after shouting insults over their shoulders. John was fully invested in bringing Sherlock off and followed him down as he sank into the chair with a moan. He sucked and bobbed his head until Sherlock tugged at his hair and put him at the speed he wanted. John remembered he had a tongue then and flicked it and Sherlock’s entire body arched in excitement.

“Oh, gods! That! Again! Fuck!”

John set to bobbing and flicking his tongue, only applying a bit of suction, and now Sherlock’s legs were shaking as he approached orgasm fast and hard. John felt his cock begin to twitch in his mouth and a sudden musky spray flooded his mouth as Sherlock gasped through his orgasm with his hands pulling painfully on John’s hair. John moaned and intended to keep sucking, but Sherlock pulled him off and bent his head to kiss him hungrily before sagging back with a look of bliss on his face.

“Gods, John, that was just… just…” Sherlock sighed happily, pressing on the pump to deflate himself again and slowly tucking himself in.

John smiled, stroking his hands along Sherlock’s clothed thighs lovingly, “I can’t believe we’re doing this, but it’s right, Sherlock. We’re really good together.”

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled down at John, reaching out to run his fingers through his hair, “I never thought you’d feel that way, too. I’m glad you do, John. I’ve needed you for so long now I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’d… I’d almost considered doing as Mycroft advised and reversing the mastectomy to make myself more appealing to you. Then you started supporting me and… Is this good for _you_ , John?”

Sherlock’s concern was obvious, but John was nodding before he’d even considered it, “Yeah. It’s an adjustment, but it can’t be as big an adjustment for me as it is for you. This is what I need, Sherlock. Maybe not what I always pictured for myself, but it’s what I need. I’ve been addicted to you for ages. I fell apart when you were gone. This is…”

John’s sentiment was interrupted when the door swung open and Dimmock walked in with Donovan and Anderson hot on his heals.

“You see? They’re not taking Greg’s disappearance seriously at all! They’re in here sucking each other off like the perverts they are!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snorted, “We’re waiting for the program to finish running.”

The computer pinged and Sherlock’s entire focus became the videotapes while John stood awkwardly with his shirt un-tucked.

“It’s not what it looks like, Ron,” John sighed as Dimmock glared at him.

“I’d expect better from you, John,” Dimmock snapped back, “Greg’s your friend, too!”

“And I’m concerned, but we’re waiting on Walter and the tapes. We were just… taking the edge off the anxiety.”

“A likely excuse,” Donovan sneered, but John thought if she hadn’t been there Dimmock would have been more understanding.

“Look, if you two aren’t going to take this seriously then I’m going to have to kick you off the case.”

“Damn him!” Sherlock shouted, slamming his fist down on the table.

“Who?” John asked.

Sherlock had grabbed his coat and was storming out of the computer lab with his face contorted in rage. John glanced down at the tapes to see them showing a blurred figure moving through the crowd. Ten hadn’t just been altered, John saw her in one of the clips. Someone had been removed from footage all throughout the Bar… and whoever it was followed Lestrade into the men’s room.

“Shit,” John breathed, and chased after his lover.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John barely caught up to Sherlock in time to get in the cab with him. The man was fuming, shaking with rage, as he spat out the address. John sat in silence, wondering why they were heading to the second best neighborhood in London- second only to Buckingham Palace. He’d never seen Sherlock so angry before. The man’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed in outrage. John had no doubt that he’d murder the person who answered the door to the gorgeous stone mansion. It was a butler, of course, and John gripped Sherlock’s arm to keep him from punching the man out.

“Where is he?!”

“Lord Holmes has instructed me to-”

“Burn in hell for all I care!” Sherlock ranted at him, “I don’t mean my bastard brother, I mean the man he’s locked up here!”

The butler looked alarmed and Sherlock pushed past him with John hot on his heals.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted.

“Greg!” John called as well, though Sherlock’s deep voice would likely carry farther, “This place is huge! Where would he put him?”

“I won’t know until I see Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, “It depends on the state of his mind, which may have truly cracked. Mycroft! Where are you?! What did you do with him?!”

A door slammed in the distance and Mycroft appeared, clothes completely disheveled with a black eye as he moved quickly down the sweeping staircase.

“Get out,” Mycroft ordered.

“Where is he, Mycroft?”

“Get out of my home before I call the police!”

“You’d have a difficult time explaining the detective inspector locked up in one of your guest rooms!” Sherlock snapped, brushing past him and heading up the stairs.

Mycroft lunged at Sherlock but John was there, tackling him to the floor and wrestling the man into submission. To his absolute shock Mycroft began to sob once he realized he was completely unable to get free. The sound of voices reached John’s ears and Sherlock came down the stairs leading a dazed Gregory Lestrade by one arm.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied, giving Mycroft a worried look, “A bit confused, but not hurt. Can you let him up, John?”

“Ah, yeah, I guess,” John replied, glancing at Sherlock who was giving Mycroft a pitying look.

John climbed off the aristocrat who pushed himself up to his knees and gazed up at Lestrade in misery.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

“Yeah, I know you are,” Lestrade nodded, reaching out and brushing Mycroft’s tears off of his cheeks.

Then he turned and walked out the door while Mycroft collapsed to the ground in a ball and sobbed brokenly. John stood to one side, completely confused while Lestrade hailed a cab outside the open door. Sherlock looked back and forth between Lestrade and Mycroft and then made his decision with a sigh. He knelt on the floor by his broken sibling and gently touched his arm.

“I know,” Sherlock told him softly, pulling Mycroft’s head into his lap, “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now. It’s going to hurt for a while. Then it will get better.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked, frustrated and confused.

“Help me get him off the floor and upstairs,” Sherlock replied softly, “The servants shouldn’t see him like this.”

John sighed and helped Sherlock drag a shaking and sobbing Mycroft to his feet. They got Mycroft upstairs and walked down a long hall until they reached a set of double doors. John pulled them open and they entered an opulent room with a canopy bed that stood on a dais, of all things. Instead of heading for the bed, Sherlock pulled him to a posh fainting couch and laid him down on it.

“Wet flannel,” Sherlock muttered and John obediently checked three doors until he found the ensuite.

“Here,” John handed it to Sherlock, who pressed it to Mycroft’s face.

The man’s hands came up and pressed the flannel firmly down his breath stuttering through it. Sherlock stood and drew John to one side before searching the room. He even rifled through Mycroft’s pockets. Then he laid his evidence down on the bed. A trashcan with several used condoms and an empty bottle of lube in it, an ashtray with two cigarettes stubbed out, a note from Mycroft’s wallet with Lestrade’s handwriting on it, and a pack of matches from Escape Bar.

“What happened?” John repeated.

“Mycroft tried to cut us off at Escape Bar. He intended to confront me and embarrass me in front of ‘my own kind’ in a last ditch effort to get me to revert back. Lestrade found him first and punched him out on the dance floor, using the bustle of the dance floor to hide that fact- that’s the bruise you see on his eye. He then went to the bathroom and Mycroft followed him in a tiff to get the last word.”

“Oooof course he did.”

“When they got to the bathroom they argued, and then Lestrade decided to turn the tables on Mycroft. Without getting the details I can’t know exactly what happened, but whatever it was it opened Mycroft’s eyes. I’m guessing he started with a kiss, but… well they were in there for two hours.”

John’s draw dropped and Sherlock sighed.

“That’s not all?” John asked.

“Sadly, no. Once done in the bathroom they left together. My theory is Lestrade told him he’d _really_ blow his mind given enough time to get round two going.”

“Damn, Greg,” John breathed, “So how did this escalate to abduction?”

“When Greg succeeded in doing exactly that and then left the next morning without a word.”

John winced, but then Sherlock unfolded the note he’d found in Mycroft’s wallet.

_Mycroft,_

_You were stunning last night. And breathtaking this morning. And I hope you’ll be amazing for me again sometime. Give me a ring and I’ll take you out to dinner properly next time. Just don’t expect me to be able to afford what you deserve._

_Yours,  
Greg_

“So he didn’t totally leave him high and dry,” John stated.

“Mycroft wakes every morning at five,” Sherlock continued, “Lestrade was abducted at six. His shift started at seven this morning. Looking at our timetables Lestrade likely never went to sleep after sex. He’ll have waited until Mycroft fell asleep, or perhaps was a bit more romantic and watched him fall asleep, before leaving in time to get home and change for work. Mycroft woke like clockwork despite the exhaustion and found the note. That’s when the trouble started.”

“ _That’s_ when it started?” John asked, deciding the trouble truly started at Mycroft’s birth.

“That’s when Mycroft went through- in a matter of minutes if our timetable is to be believed- what I went through in approximately ten years and what _you’re_ going through now to some extent.”

“Shit. He didn’t know he was gay.”

“He hadn’t faced it,” Sherlock sighed, “I’ve known for quite some time. The long line of meaningless sex with women of ridiculously perfect proportions who were clearly unsatisfied, surrounding himself with gorgeous assistants who were clearly lesbians, hyper focused on his work until relationships were impossible, his _obscene_ hatred of my gender identification, and then blowing his top when he found I _still_ preferred men despite having reassigned my gender to male…”

“Shit,” John sighed, “It was so obvious, how did I miss… no, don’t answer that. I know. I’m an idiot.”

“Not this time. This time you’re just not his brother,” Sherlock sighed.

“So he cracked?”

“Essentially, yes,” Sherlock nodded, “He realized that he was gay but rather than embracing it he went to his knee-jerk reaction.”

“Control,” John sighed.

“Precisely. He called in a team, likely made up a reason, and had Lestrade pulled off the street and the tapes collected. He then locked him in a guest bedroom and informed him he’d be staying and that he’d be very happy with that situation.”

John looked for a place to sit down and settled a chair where he rubbed at his face, “I need to call Greg.”

Sherlock nodded and John stepped out into the hallway to make the call.

_“Yeah?”_

“Greg? Are you okay?”

 _“I’ve been better,”_ Greg sighed.

“Did he hurt you?”

“ _Not… well… no. No, not really. Threatened, yeah, but he didn’t hurt me_.”

“Sherlock says he just... decided he was keeping you,” John stated, his tone shocked.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Lestrade laughed, “ _He sort of went off the deep end. I don’t think he knew what to think about… well, about liking being with a bloke. I’m guessing you know all about that.”_

“Yeah, it’s pretty clear,” John laughed, “Got yourself some magic down there, have you?”

Lestrade laughed, _“I won’t lie, I’m pretty damn good.”_

“So… shit, I’ve no idea where to go from here. What do you say to a bloke that was abducted by his one night stand?”

Lestrade sighed, _“It wasn’t meant to be a one-off. I’ve liked him for a bit and thought he might be bent. I just didn’t think he was that far in the closet that he’d go round the bend just because we fucked a few times!”_

“A few t… bloody hell, Greg,” John rubbed the bridge of his nose. _No wonder he jumped into the queer pond with both feet. If Sherlock had been buggered senseless all night long one day he’d probably have had to accept it fast, too._

“ _Is he okay?_ ” Lestrade asked anxiously, “ _I didn’t mean to run out, but… shit, I just had to get out of there. I was feeling claustrophobic, you know?”_

“He’s pretty much comatose.”

_“Shit. Maybe I should come back.”_

“Where are you?”

_“At the park around the corner. I called the Yard and Dimmock met me here. I told him I wasn’t pressing charges. He’s pissed as hell.”_

“Press charges against the British government?”

_“I mean it, John. I like him. A lot. I’m not going to say love, and I’m not ready to forgive, but I do care about him. He freaked out. He needs help. He gets it, I’ll give him another chance.”_

“Damn,” John sighed, “The fuck is wrong with us, eh?”

_“What do you mean ‘us’?”_

“Sherlock and I. We’re together now. He fakes his own death, basically abuses me our entire friendship, changes from the gender I prefer to the one I don’t, and I’m basically ready to marry him.”

Lestrade burst out laughing, “ _I spend ages pining over Mycroft, get him in bed, get abducted by him, then run for the hills, now I’m ready to come back… We are a fucking pair, aren’t we?”_

“Yeah, a pair of mad hatters,” John snickered.

Sherlock stepped out of Mycroft’s bedroom and John told Lestrade to hold on.

“Mycroft’s gotten himself together now. He wants to know about Lestrade.”

“He’s out of his coma,” John informed Lestrade, “You want to talk to him?”

Lestrade sighed, thought a moment, “ _Yeah. Yeah, I wanna talk to him._ ”

Mycroft’s hands were shaking as he took the phone from John’s hand.

“Don’t scare him,” John whispered, “You’re fucking lucky, you know that?”

Mycroft nodded anxiously and John and Sherlock left the room. At which point Sherlock smirked and raised his phone to his ear to listen in on his own phone.

“How did you…?”

“Shh! It’s on mute, but I still need to be able to hear.”

“Well, put it on speaker, then!” John hissed.

Sherlock shook his head, though, and John fell silent and paced a bit until Sherlock gave him a warm smile and hung up his phone. Mycroft stepped out a moment later and handed John his mobile.

“Gregory has agreed to meet with me… once I’ve gotten counseling to teach me to accept myself.”

“He’s generous,” John scoffed, “I’d be demanding you go on medication and get counseling for more than accepting yourself.”

“John,” Sherlock scolded, “You took this transition well. Not everyone does.”

“ _Abducting_ someone?”

“Well…” Sherlock shrugged and smirked, “I handled it better.”

“You jumped out your bedroom window,” Mycroft scoffed, “On the fourth floor.”

“Broke both my legs,” Sherlock informed John.

“Oh, so you had practice for jumping off St. Bart’s. Lovely,” John sighed.

Sherlock gave John a smirk but Mycroft was looking more lost than John had seen him even when he’d realized he’d betrayed Sherlock to Moriarty.

“How are you handling this so well?” Mycroft asked John, “You’re nearly my age. Aren’t you… horrified? Don’t you wonder how you _missed_ this all your life?”

“I guess… it’s just a different journey for me,” John replied, “I panicked a bit, but I was there for my sister going through her own sexuality realization, so it was less dramatic for me. I accept and love her, so it wasn’t too hard to accept and love myself. Also, I guess… I guess it hasn’t really sunk in yet. I don’t think of myself as gay or bi, I’m just… me. Except, now I’m me plus Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted, “You’ve been ‘plus’ me for a long time.”

“Yeah, that too,” John laughed.

Mycroft didn’t look relieved; he sank down on a chair in the hall.

“Sherlock, I know I’ve made your life miserable. I see that now, but… where do I go from here?” Mycroft looked as though he were going to his funeral, “How do I face my peers? Do I tell them? Keep it to myself? What if they loose all respect for me? What if I loose my position because of all of this?”

Sherlock sighed and sat in the chair across from Mycroft. It mirrored their usual positions when Mycroft visited Sherlock at Baker Street, but for once it was Mycroft who looked despondent.

“I can’t answer any of that for you,” Sherlock replied, “I can’t tell you how to live your new life, or how people will react or treat you. However, I can tell you one truth that I’ve found.”

“What might that be?”

“[It gets better](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNo5EZaoV8I&nomobile=1),” Sherlock told him firmly, “Slowly and painfully, but it eventually gets better. Eventually you’ll look at your life and be… _more than_ content.”

  
 

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | A Necessary Change Ch 3

This is a flashback to right before they left the little attic apartment they were staying in after Sherlock’s surgery. It is right after the examination in which he successfully inflated his penis for the first time.

John was out. John was out and Sherlock was terrified. John was out and Sherlock was terrified and aroused. John was out and Sherlock was terrified, aroused, and _curious_.

He hadn’t masturbated yet.

_Wanked. It’s called wanking when blokes do it. Is it called that when women do it? Irrelevant. I am a man now, as I always was, as I was meant to be._

Sherlock glanced around the room furtively, feeling very much like a teenager, and then cautiously opened his dressing gown slipped out of his pants as though he were breaking rules by doing so. He sat down on the sofa, legs pressed tightly together with his loose testicular sack and limp penis sitting on top of them. They still looked an odd combination of foreign and _right_. He’d always pictured himself as uncircumcised, so to see himself this way felt wrong somehow. At the same time he finally had the parts he’d been longing for his _entire life_.

Sherlock hesitantly pressed the button he’d only hit once so far- in the company of his doctor and John. Thoughts of John always sent desire curling through his body, but he resisted it because it was _not on_. John didn’t feel that way about him. John wasn’t gay, and Sherlock had taken the last steps that would ensure that he’d 1) be happy with his body for the rest of his life and 2) be off limits to John for the rest of his life.

Sherlock put the disappointment out of his mind; he had John’s friendship and that was almost as valuable to him as this very necessary change had been. He was going to explore this new body of his without reservation. Taking his courage- and his cock- in hand, he began a slow steady stroke. Nerve endings fired and his eyes rolled back into his head a his hips jerked and pleasure overwhelmed him.

Too much pleasure. It was overwhelming and almost painful. Sherlock released himself in frustration. His body wasn’t used to this type of touch, it felt like his nerves were all raw and exposed. He needed a barrier of some sort. A condom? Probably too much. Lubricant?

Sherlock struggled off the couch and wandered to John’s suitcase which he was still living out of after over a year. He searched through it for a moment but found no lubricant. A moment of thought gave him the info he wanted and he headed downstairs with his housecoat proudly tented by his erection. A search of the bathroom located several types of lotions. Still mindful of infection, Sherlock chose one with relatively few ingredients and headed upstairs once more.

Sherlock once more made himself comfortable upon the couch and slathered his member liberally. He sighed in pleasure as the soft strokes made him arch his back and curl his toes. He was soon flushed and stroking himself with a firmer hand, his hesitance at touching his new bits harshly leaving as desire made him bold. He was reaching that point, that tightness in his muscles, that burning sensation spiraling outward, when… nothing happened. Sherlock sagged back on the couch, panting raggedly, and stared down at his throbbing, twitching member in exhausted frustration. The doctor had warned him that some people took up to a year after nerve sensation returned to achieve an orgasm, but somehow he thought he’d be in the rare few who simply were able to climax immediately. For a horrifying moment he wondered if he’d be one of the few who _couldn’t_ reach culmination ever again.

_Deep breath, Sherlock. It’s not that big of a deal. You can still have sex. You’re still a man. Your body finally matches your mind._

Except it didn’t. Sherlock was circumcised.

_Irrelevant. Many men around the world are and all have no difficulty being masculine, having sex, or achieving orgasm. I don’t need to develop a_ new _body dysmorphia._

Sherlock deflated his achingly sensitive privates and pulled his pants up, but quickly hissed in alarm at the sensations caused by them. He opted to sit with just the robe splayed out around his thighs and set about looking a few things up and updating his website. He also checked John’s blog and responded to a few commenters, explaining that he and John were on holiday. It was about this time that Mycroft strode through the door as if he owned the place.

Sherlock jolted to his feet in anger, his robe sadly falling shut over his new bits.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, “I thought my bees made it clear last time that you aren’t wanted here.”

“I thought I’d stop by one last time to inform you that DI Lestrade has gotten bold enough to ask _me_ about you.”

Sherlock snorted, “ _Bold_ enough? He fancies you. It was more than likely an _excuse_.”

“You could tell him you’re alright.”

“I have. He demanded more information. At the time you hadn’t located us, so I left him in the dark.”

“I knew where you were a few hours after your surgery,” Mycroft scoffed, “I was simply too busy to pop buy and witness your miserable whinging for pain killers. How is your drug habit, by the way, well and truly revived?”

“I don’t need drugs anymore,” Sherlock replied, lifting his chin proudly, “I’m _whole_ now.”

“Yes, whole and sexually frustrated. Have you finally realized how _repulsive_ John finds you now?”

“Get out.”

“Oh, you have! How charming. Well will you be scheduling your return operation?”

“Never. I may have lost John for good, but I’ve got myself looking the way I’m _meant_ to. Being able to look at myself- my _entire_ self- in the mirror is worth the sacrifice of a love I’d never even felt. He’s my best friend. That’s good enough.”

“You’ll regret this,” Mycroft sneered, and then turned and left him in peace once more.

Except he wasn’t in peace. Sherlock had kept a brave face on while Mycroft was present, but the second he was gone (and Sherlock had checked the area he’d been standing in to make sure he hadn’t planted any recording devices) Sherlock sank back onto the sofa and put his head in his hands. He allowed himself one slow, shuddering sob, and one tear, and then forced himself to bury the emotions he felt. John wasn’t his and he never would be. He could still manage. He could date. He could have one-offs. He could have John be _his_ wingman, and it would be a kind of dating with his adorable, jumper-wearing flatmate.

He could be happy.

John’s familiar tread on the stairs and the rattle of the key in the lock had Sherlock wiping at his face and adjusting his robe and surroundings until everything was innocently arranged. John walked in with a frown on his face and glanced in Sherlock’s direction.

“The lock wasn’t turned. You go out somewhere?”

“Just for some air. I must have forgotten to re-latch it.”

“Hmm, it’s done you good. You’re pink about the face; much healthier looking than you were yesterday. I’ve gotten word from the Doc. He says you can go home whenever you like and to contact him with any concerns. Ready to get back to Baker Street?”

“ _Frantic_ to.”

“I thought as much. Call that bloke you said would take your beehive and let’s get packing!”

Sherlock smiled warmly as he stood up and readied his bees for transfer. The man came and got them in record time- barely fifteen minutes after the call was made- apparently ecstatic to find a fresh hive for his collection. Sherlock let John think that his light sniffling and wet eyes were in loss of the beehive. He didn’t want him to know how hard he was crying inside for something he could never have as he watched his flatmate all but skip about their tiny little attic prison in preparation for their return to London.

[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/116028.html)   



	4. vincentmeoblinn | A Necessary Change Ch 4

I don't recall who requested this particular scene, so if you're reading give me a shout under corrections and I'll add your name to the chapter as a dedication. :)

 

WARNING: Mentions of child abuse in this chapter.

Mycroft sighed in relief as Gregory headed back towards his parked car. Their evening had been splendid, the perfect combination of romance and soothing words. Gregory was a gentleman, pulling out Mycroft’s chair and guiding him by the elbow without ever making him feel degraded in any way. When the waiter gave them an odd look at the sight of them holding hands across the table, Gregory silently excused himself to speak with the manager and they had a new waiter. That simple. No wonder the man was capable of handling Shirly… Sher _lock_.

Mycroft closed the front door, blushing at the fact his neighbors might have seen him receive a less than chaste kiss goodnight from his _male_ date, and headed to his den for a nightcap. He and Gregory were taking it slow, and while it was somewhat torturous for them both it was also a _very_ good idea. Mycroft _needed_ the sedentary pace. He needed to experience dating as a whole rather than frantic shagging and an empty, abandoned, frightened feeling. He needed to be romanced and to charm in return; and he _had_ charmed him. He was certain of that! Demure he might have been tonight, but he was also witty, dashing, and just the right measure of sensual. Gregory had looked at him in longing more than once, and his farewell kiss had been shamefully close to a snog.

Mycroft settled down with his drink and a book and put thoughts of the reception of his peers out of his mind. They would deal or he would deal with them. It was worth it for the sense of completeness that he had in Gregory’s company.

 

XXX

 

Sherlock heard John drop the groceries down on the table with a grunt and then the sound of cupboards being opened and slammed.

Swish _bang._

Swish _bang_.

“Had another row with a chip and pin machine?”

“No!”

“A woman, then?”

“Yes!”

Wait for it…

“Hang on,” John rounded the corner looking flushed and confused, “How did you know?”

“How do I _ever_ know?”

“Yes, but how did you know _this time_?”

“Only two things get you so irrationally angry that you start hitting inanimate things: other inanimate things and women.”

“Really?” John asked, a baffled look on his face.

“Yes, really,” Sherlock replied, and then turned back to his computer, aware that John’s anger was successfully defused.

“Good thing I’m dating a bloke now,” John chuckled, “You just get me to beat up and occasionally kill bad guys for you.”

Sherlock smiled softly. It still amazed him that John was _his_ and that he was content to stay that way.

“So what did this woman say or do?” Sherlock asked.

“She hit on me. When I said I was in a commited relationship she laughed, said men don’t commit, and then grabbed my crotch! If she were a man I could have punched her,” John complained.

“If men and women were truly equally you could have hit her.”

“Yes! Yes! Exactly! It’s not fair!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Wait for it…

“Shit, I don’t mean that. I’d never hit a woman,” John stammered, rounding the corner and giving Sherlock a horrified look.

“Yes, John, I know. You’re a pillar of masculine strength and honor.”

John snorted and went back to the groceries. Sherlock heard him put on the kettle, fix their tea, and then smiled as he headed towards him with two cups.

“Thank you,” Sherlock sighed, taking the cup and blowing on it.

John settled beside him with a grateful sigh and then gave him a hopeful look, “Case? Experiment?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Nothing I can’t put down. I’m all yours. What did you have in mind?”

One of the biggest difficulties in their relationship so far was trying to get past Sherlock’s hyper focusing on tasks. John had started asking him regularly if he was free and if he was they jumped into ‘couple time’.

“Movie? There’s one I’ve been wanting to watch… if you can stop from spoiling the end.”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises if it’s a shite plotline.”

John chuckled and slipped in a movie before settling back with Sherlock, his arm around his lanky lover’s waist. Sherlock leaned into him, tucking his feet up on the couch. They were about half an hour in before Sherlock started yelling at the tele and an hour in before he stormed off in disgust. John sighed and followed him.

“Sherlock, is it so much to ask you to suck it up and have a movie night with me?” John sighed.

“Apparently, yes.”

“Our relationship isn’t going to work if you and I don’t…”

“Did movies help your previous relationships?”

“Well…”

“Did going out to a restaurant and _both_ of you eating help them?”

“Sherlock you…”

“What _did_ help your relationships, John?”

John closed up. Sherlock saw it immediately, but for once he didn’t storm off in a tiff.

“I can tell you what hurt them: you.”

“Well then it’s a good thing you’re with me now, isn’t it! I can’t possibly end my own relationship with you.”

“See, that’s the funny thing Sherlock. You can.”

Then John stormed off in a tiff while Sherlock replayed the conversation and tried to figure out what he’d done or said wrong. Finally he gave up, sighed, and went looking for his partner. John was at the park as usual, staring off in space from his favorite bench with a steaming paper cup in his hand. Sherlock sat down beside him ( _hot chocolate, still upset, socks don’t match- left the flat in a hurry_ _and wants comfort_ ).

“I love you, John,” Sherlock stated softly, “We’ll get through this.”

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John sighed, “I just don’t know how to do this with you. You don’t want to watch movies with me, eat with me, go out to the pub with my friends and I, anything really.”

“We live together, we do a lot of things together.”

“Like what, Sherlock?” John sighed, picking up his cup and sipping from it with a grimace as it burnt his tongue.

“Tea. We have tea often.”

“Too often,” John replied with a twitch of his lips.

“There’s no such thing as too much tea,” Sherlock teased, always picking on John for being a stereotypical Englishman.

“What else?”

“Cases.”

“Yes, cases,” John smiled warmly, “They’re the best part of us I think.”

“Except for the sex, which I was going to mention next.”

John blushed and sniffed, clearly affronted by the mention of sex in public, “Yes, that part that’s… really blood fantastic to be honest.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Sherlock snorted. John chuckled a bit, “Then what else is there?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I’d like some _non_ -overwhelming stuff to do with you.”

“Cluedo?”

“You mention Cluedo again and we’re breaking up,” John snorted, resulting in them laughing a bit.

“Tea is calm.”

“Nothing with you is calm.”

“We could have slow sex?”

“Are you capable of that?”

“From what I’ve been reading most relationships peter off into rather boring sex anyway.”

“More like comfortable, and there are always ways to spice things up,” John replied with a shrug.

“I thought you wanted dull?”

“I want _relaxed_ , not dull. You see this, Sherlock? You see this park? The way we’re sitting here and the world is just turning around us? That’s what I want. I want to know that our relationship is alive even when we aren’t chasing criminals or blowing up our flat.”

“You think this is relaxed?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Well, not our conversation but, going for a walk, having some cocoa, sitting on a bench…”

“Watching toxic mold spoors destroy that evergreen, waiting for that pedophile to grab that clearly neglected child playing _far_ too far away from his uncaring parents, that dog over there is clearly unstable and likely bite anyone in an instant, and _that_ man there has three wives and is looking for a third… ah, see he’s headed for that tired and vulnerable mother of four. She’ll be bagged before the end of the day.”

John paused a moment, glancing at all the things Sherlock had pointed out, “You get the pedophile I’ll get the kid.”

Sherlock stood up without another word and headed for the pedophile. After an entire hour of distracting the bastard with conversation the police finally showed up and Sherlock had him taken away. His previous arrests made even being in a park full of kids a one-way trip back to prison. He located John talking to another set of officers who were keeping the parents from beating the hell out of him while he stood off to one side with a small child on his hip. Sherlock headed over.

“There you are, Sherlock,” John said in relief, “Can you talk to these people? Do your thing?”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock replied, and reached out to tug up the child’s shirt.

The entire group went silent and stared in horror at the sight of a small boy with a sunken stomach and sores marring his skin.

“You said neglected!” John gasped in horror, hugging the child closely and petting his hair protectively.

“Neglected _severely_ , apparently,” Sherlock replied, “The sores are from sleeping in unhealthy conditions combined with his poor diet. His immune system is likely compromised.”

“Oh, gods, sweetheart,” John comforted as the little boy started crying from all the tension around him.

The police arrested the pale parents and a child service worker showed up to take the child away. John seemed reluctant to be parted from the boy, and Sherlock was immediately worried that an adoption was in their future, but he eventually gave the woman his number and asked her to call him and tell him how the lad was doing sometime.

They headed home and John fell into his chair and stared into the distance.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered, having difficulty reading John.

“No thanks.”

“Cocoa?”

“I might never drink that stuff again.”

“I require an explanation,” Sherlock decided after a moment.

“I don’t think I can explain it… can you just come and sit in my lap a moment?”

Sherlock sank into John’s lap, comfortable perched on his pudgy soldier’s warm thighs.

“Should we go to the park and relax again tomorrow?”

“Sherlock, if I _ever_ tell you I want to relax again, slap me.”

“Does that mean you want to start spicing up our love life already?” Sherlock quipped.

John laughed and pressed his face to Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in his scent.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

His lips moved down, pressing kisses to John’s temple, flicking a tongue at his earlobe, inching down his jaw, and finally capturing his lips. They kissed slowly and tenderly for a moment, enjoying the familiar feel of each other’s bodies as they slowly ran their hands over shoulders and down backs. Sherlock jumped when John pinched a nipple through his shirt and then smiled warmly against his lips. Sherlock turned in the chair and straddled John’s hips, rubbing against him slowly as he enjoyed their kiss and the feel of John’s breathing speeding up. When the man’s hips started to lift off the chair Sherlock started to undo his own trousers in anticipation of their coupling. He reached into his trousers an activated the pump that filled his cock and let it rise to attention.

John purred and pushed Sherlock’s hands aside so he could wrap his fingers around his slowly filling member.

“Gods, I love to feel that,” John panted against Sherlock’s neck as he peppered it with kisses and nips.

“ _You_ love to feel it?” Sherlock teased, arching his back and pressing his hips up.

“Just knowing who it belongs to and that I had a part in making this part of you, even if it was a small one.”

“A _huge_ one,” Sherlock breathed, leaning back and looking into John’s eyes, “I was willing to give up my chances of ever having you just to feel complete in my own body- a body you were willing to do _anything_ to get me- and now we have each other. You are mine and I am yours. Do you know what that is to me, John? A dream realized. A hope met. For the first time in my life I look at tomorrow and can envision a future I _want to be in_.”

“Gods, Sherlock,” John breathed and pulled him down into a frantic kiss.

They squirmed out of clothes and began to rut against each other, thrusting into their combined hands as Sherlock writhed on John’s lap. Sherlock breathed his name and John groaned in pleasure. Sherlock began to speed up as he chased his release, but John kept slowing him down.

“John!” Sherlock snapped angrily.

“Just let it happen,” John breathed, his face flushed with excitement and his eyes glazed.

“I’m _trying_ to, but you’re not _letting_ it!”

“Relax,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s flushed chest.

“Didn’t you tell me to slap you if you said that,” Sherlock snarled.

His nerve endings were sparking despite the slower pace. He could feel his orgasm building and new suddenly that if they kept the same pace it would be a truly overwhelming climax. He stopped fighting John and started following his lead, he was soon gasping and all but sobbing in frustration as he hovered just at the edge. His cock was twitching in their combined grip and he gave them both a tighter squeeze. It was good so he repeated it and took up a rhythm until John was panting with need.

“Oh, gods!” John cried out, and spilled into their hands.

The hot, slippery feel of John’s semen overwhelmed Sherlock and he shouted in shock as his orgasm took him by surprise. John milked his cock, moaning Sherlock’s name as he stroked him over and again while Sherlock rode out his pleasure. He captured a nipple and flicked it with his tongue.

“John! T-too much!”

“M-mm,” John disagreed, giving the nipple a bite and continuing to stroke him despite the look of discomfort.

Sherlock’s nerves were screaming at him to stop and let him relax, but John was stubbornly forcing him on to the next orgasm. Sherlock simultaneously wanted to push him out of his lap and demand more.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!” Sherlock begged.

“Again, love, again for me,” John urged.

Sherlock’s head flew back and he couldn’t even _breathe_ as his hips jerked and the blood pounded through his body. His mouth was open in a silent scream as he shook with pleasure. Spots danced in front of his eyes and once he finally managed to gasp in some air the sound he made afterwards was absolutely humiliating. Until he looked down at John’s face; John looked _worshipful._

“Sherlock. Sherlock, my stunning, wonderful, handsome, brilliant lover.”

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “I don’t know whether to slug you or kiss you.”

“Marry me instead.”

Sherlock blinked a moment, still panting for air.

“Okay.”


End file.
